Part 11:
link They sit quietly for a moment, still pondering the strange coincidence about their mothers.
I need to hold him. Gwen leans over and puts her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. He kisses her forehead, and notices a scar there, about an inch long, faint but there.
“Where did you get this?” he pokes it with his finger.
“I walked into the cozinha mesa, tabela when I was three,” she tells him. He laughs, and she protests, “I suppose you have no scars from something dumb you accidentally did as a...
