Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. “Have you not heard?” she said. “No one asks you to care for them. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda. This moment couldn’t be better until the next moment comes. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready.
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