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The latch clicked shut behind her with a sound so small it felt insulting, like the house wanted to pretend it hadn’t just ended her childhood.
Lena Hart stood on the porch step for a beat too long, as if her feet might negotiate with the wood and refuse to move. Dust settled on her boots. The late September air in the hills outside Silver Creek, Colorado had that thin, sharp edge that warned you winter was already practicing its teeth.
In her left hand, she held a worn leather pouch. Inside: seventeen dollars and a few loose coins that clinked like mockery when she shifted her grip.
