CHAPTER 1 The innocent sleep,Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,The death of every day’s life, sore labor’s bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,chief nourisher in life’s feast.— William Shakespeare, Macbeth EXITING THE SWEET SAFETY of the shadows for the hotter, softly lit solidity of the bedroom I shared with October was, as at all times, something of a shock. She pushed against my chest to be released and I let her go, staying where I used to be and watching as she stepped away to catch her breath and brush the ice from her hair, remaining within sight. We were each, I feel, too shaken to maneuver very removed from each other.She shot me a glance, wearily...
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