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by Kim McFarland
Red was awake, and she hurt.
She was lying on her back in her bed on the floor. It was not as comfortable as her hammock, but she hadn't slept up there for so long she had taken it down.
She hurt, and her mind felt fuzzy. She had the feeling that she'd been drugged. She tried to sit up, and whimpered with pain.
A hand touched her cheek. "How do you feel?" Boober's voice said softly.
She tried to look around. Where was he? Oh. She realized that he was sitting behind her, sort of, and her head was in his lap. She mumbled, "My everything hurts."
"I'm not surprised," he replied gently.
"Where's my baby? Is she all right?" Red asked anxiously.
"She's fine," Boober said in the same calm tone. He stroked her hairwhich was down; her pigtails had come loose long agoand repeated, "She's fine and healthy. Gobo's
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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