The word rippled through the mud and rain. Duke dropped his mark. The referee blew the whistle.
“I won,” Viola said. “You were in London, writing bad poems about a girl named ‘Mystic.’”
“A perceptive plant. You know… whoever you’re hiding from, they’re not worth it.”
The word rippled through the mud and rain. Duke dropped his mark. The referee blew the whistle.
“I won,” Viola said. “You were in London, writing bad poems about a girl named ‘Mystic.’”
“A perceptive plant. You know… whoever you’re hiding from, they’re not worth it.”
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