The Marathon of Silenced Lips
The first time I saw Clara Whitfield run, she was twelve years old, and she was running from a dog. It was a large dog, a black retriever with a red collar, and it was barking with the kind of enthusiasm that only a well-fed, well-loved dog can muster. Clara was not running from fear. She was running because running was what she did, and the dog was in her way. She ran past the butcher's shop,...
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