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smooth. coma.

Learning to Fall: they say.
I woke up again all fuzzy but I didn't open my eyes this time. I laid still, quiet.

There were three people in the room, two of them were policemen, one was my Dad. I listened to them and tried not to breathe or react different from when I was asleep, which basically I guess I was since I felt so groggy. I listened to the cops talk to my Dad about me and about what happened. I didn't catch it all, but I got some of it and it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

They say my footprint was found inside the door of the burning building. They say I was fifty feet outside of a broken sliding glass door, laying still in the grass like I laid down there for a nap and they say that my finger prints will turn up on the grill that was pushed through the glass. They say they're sure of that.

They say my burns are only on my chest where the "if it smells good, eat it" screenprinted wolf melted there once the plastisol of the ink in the design caught fire. They say they want to know if I have a drug problem.

They say they want to question me.

They say I acted alone after committing a spree of small vandalisms leading from our garage to the scene of the explosion that burnt the house where Mr. Gill died.

Mr. Gill died.

That's what they say.

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smooth. coma.

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