Since I'd died, Mom had acquired a gray streak in her
hair. The rest of her looked more or
less the same. Dad looked a lot older.
His hairline had receded. His
muscle density had lessened, decayed, and he seemed jumpy. Any sound outside drew him to the window or
to the door, squinting, looking out like some sort of threat assembled on every
moment, come to collect his defenseless baby girl.
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