Written by Highest Kite On the first Sunday of the year, a man touched you wrong. Eight months later, you still see him washing cars, clearing grass, gravel and dirt, but more often, tending to the six sheep he claimed he was looking for at the empty paddock behind the pastor’s home when he put his hands on you, and you cried and cried. Fright is unplanned for. You know this now, but before the evening of the 7th of …
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