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He lies in bed and debates running to the closet for the ski mask. He’s almost positive Sheri left it there, tucked into the pocket of her coat. Almost positive. He thinks of the mask with the longing of a child on Christmas Eve, waiting for morning. An intensity of desire he has not felt since Audrey Tisdale first allowed his hands under her shirt in tenth grade.

His body is warm enough beneath the mountain of quilts and blankets, and against the…