I lift my pipe to my lips and take a grand old hit. Major, more so than normal. Somehow my head falls into my hand and I rub my forehead until I can almost feel the static electricity start to build. I should leave this place, and for more reasons than simply escaping the fire.
St. Orres is
cloistered, a beautiful nunnery. People come here to escape, and they’re right
for doing it. But what they’re escaping, what they think they’re leaving
behind, comes right along with them. It hangs on fibers of their clothes and luggage,
clinging onto car trunks and dog collars.
They may think
they no longer feel it, and perhaps they don’t – they transfer it to us. We,
the people who bring them their breakfast baskets, who fluff their pillows and
change their sheets. We don’t just take care of them. We bear their burdens
until the next batch pulls into the dusty parking lot.
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