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... ing insect. Beatrice stood at the counter, hood drawn low over her face. The clerk, an older man with heavy bags beneath his eyes, didn’t ask questions. In this part of town, people rarely did.

"One box of Somnacil." She murmured, sliding a few folded bills across the counter. The man nodded, his movements slow, mechanical like most minium wage bums, his body and mind works on autopilot praying that the day or his night shift goes by quick. He placed the small white box in a paper bag, s ...

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