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February 22, 2003
I saw her coming across the lawn. The morning haze, still hanging low to the ground, swirls around her legs and naked feet. I open the door upon hearing her soft knock. Her body is covered from head to toe in white greasepaint. Even her long blonde hair is matted and sticky with the stuff. “Good morning” I say. “Already set for the celebration this afternoon?” I ask, though it’s clear that she has made the ceremonial preparations. “Yes, almost. Something has come up last minute though that I need to take care of.” A shiver runs down my neck.