I shovel dirt into the hole and my face breaks into a sweat despite the cool night air. My hands ache and I wonder how I’ll cover up the blisters in the morning. The moist earth hits the thick plastic and I wince at the sound. Why do things echo so loudly? An owl attempts an answer. My arms and legs tremble with exhaustion and I scrape the blade across rock. It’s a long drive to the coast but I can’t stay here. Her face is finally covered and she no longer stares at me. And still, I shovel dirt.
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