She sat up, fumbled for a sterile wipe, tore open the packet with her teeth and ran the wipe over her face and hands, the sudden chill of the evaporating alcohol making her shiver. Into an office. ”“And your mother—they sterilized her? After you were born, I mean. A disease had killed all the mammoths in the Ringling Brothers Circus.
”“Including me. I picked the ground vigorously, stabbing deep to aerate the wounded soil, while she judiciously poured out a mixture of water and certain organic extracts, and sowed a packet of seeds. Not Poole, though. Other times, his leg.
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