Retreating back to your usual Bronx alley with your guitar after a long day of busking, you sit down on your makeshift bed against the wall to find a surprise. Felicity is lying on the ground less than six feet from you, shivering and holding her swollen belly. As she hears you, her blind grey eyes flit up in your direction. She looks bloody and battered, so you ask what happened. I-I bumped into s-someone, and he... he b-beat me up...
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