She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. “How did you find me?” He asked. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough.
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