She loved to jog, she did.
Now she spent many days on the roof, silent and still. She sympathized more with the mortar and the tiling. What was left of her was something restless, something far off, the only thing that gave her any thrills still: The rustle of forbidden leaves in an old and dark forest. The other part of her, the part of her that lived and was not mortar, sold bags of crushed flowers to hungry-eyed patrons. It scaled buildings and crept into locked windows. Its family was made in exchanges, trust bought and sold.
So, when she was through with her jobs, she went as far up as up went, and was quiet and still.
There was school, too. When she went she skulked to the backs of classrooms for a while. Today there was harm, or healing, and she wasn't sure if it mattered which one.
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4-8 - Fever