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“Quit dragging your fishing pole,” I barked, and swatted my seven year old little brother across his cotton top. “What are you moping about anyhow?”
Obviously something was eating little Heath. He usually gabbed the whole way to the fishing hole. When he finally looked up from between those slumped shoulders his lips were curled like he’d ate our tube of crickets. I thought he was going to spew. “You promise you won’t tell momma?” he gasped, fighting back tears.
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