His hand closed on the edge of the hammock.For a second the fingers were wrong in the old way — not wrong-small, not human, but too able, too strong, too much a body that could run and climb and take a wound and still be asked to stand. Then the memory of yesterday came up through them: blood slicking the spaces between his fingers, a small grip around his smallest finger, the release of it.He opened his hand.Nothing there.Of course nothing there.
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