A black panther has found me lying on the floor—grimy, hungry, and reeking of neglect. My clothes are torn in fifty places; the soles of my flip-flops almost worn off. The harsh light of the street lamp glares off my platinum blonde hair. He sniffs at it, irritated.
“Thought I told you to wash this off.” A calm statement loaded with disapproval, I am uncertain whether a reply is required or not.
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