Hearphones update

So, we took the car in for the 10,000 mile check-up and tire rotation thingy, then went to IHOP for breakfast and a test drive of the hearphones.

The hearphones…are problematical on two fronts.

Front One:  I can’t keep the damned things charged.  Admittedly, this files under Operator Error, but I’m not usually an idiot about keeping the toys charged, so there’s some subtlety I’m missing.  And it doesn’t lessen Operator Aggravation to arrive at the Test Location and find that the ‘phones are, ahem, critically low on power.

Front Two:  Hearing my own voice in my ears is gonna drive me bugs.  And this may actually be a deal-breaker.  Steve urges me to give it another run, to see if I get used to it, which is fair, but at the moment what I’m doing is whispering in an attempt not to hear my own voice, which is…not really much better than sitting like a stump at a group dinner because I can’t hear what anyone else is saying.

The plaque (and check) which together comprise “Wise Child’s” Readers Choice award arrived yesterday.  The check we deposited in the bank today while we were out and about.  Here is a photograph of the plaque, being modeled by the delightful Mr. Miller.

So, my next order of business is to read another 50ish pages of the Neogenesis page proofs.  Lunch is on the schedule, and, very possibly, a nap, because we not only got up at stoopid o’clock to take the car in, but we got flu shots (the high-test flu shots reserved for those of us who are temporally elongated), too.

Everybody be good.

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Text of Acceptance Speech

For those who were not, as we were not, present at the Baen Traveling Roadshow at DragonCon, reproduced below is our speech accepting the Readers Choice Award for “Wise Child.”  Jim Minz (pictured below) accepted on our behalf.  That means he got to reach the speech, which he did with his usual good humor.

Herewith, The Speech:


Yes, you heard us.


We probably ought to be a little more formal than that, so let’s try this:

To DragonCon attendees, science fiction fans, and readers everywhere: Hello! from the wilds of Central Maine.

We’re pleased to be here, at least metaphorically, at this particular Baen Traveling Roadshow, to stand as the proud parents of “Wise Child,” which readers have chosen – out of a very stiff field! — as the Best Military and Adventure SF of 2016.

We must admit to being startled – we have a history of being startled when we win awards! – when Jim Minz asked if we could be with you this afternoon, either electronically or in spirit, to accept this award for our novelette, the seventy-first Sharon Lee and Steve Miller collaboration.


Well. . .yes.

We believe that the purpose of a story is to be an experience, a celebration, if you will, for readers – something that they’ll hopefully enjoy on reading, and recall, later, with pleasure.

Us. . .We make our living by writing stories, long and short and in-between. Our method is to write the best story we can write, this time; collect our fee – and move on to write another story for readers to experience and enjoy, sometime down the road.

Most short fiction is like that, for most writers: a kind of a fire-and-forget situation, if you will.

In this case, though we won’t forget that, when “Wise Child” hit the Baen.com website last year, we got a lot of positive feedback from readers via email and Facebook. Then, the story was chosen for inclusion in Volume Three of the Year’s Best Military and Adventure SF!

This particular “fire-and-forget” story not only hit the original target but had two secondary hits, as well.

So Thanks!

Thank you, DragonCon, for hosting the award presentation!

Thank you, Baen, for publishing and supporting the book, and the award!

Thank you, David Afsharirad – our editor – for selecting our story for publication!

. . .And. . .

Thank you, readers, for reading, and for voting, and for naming “Wise Child” as one of the best!

Here you see Jim Minz accepting and David Afsharirad showing off the plaque.

Photo by Christopher Ruocchio

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What in Ghu’s name has the woman been DOING?

Life is still happening; as ever, a two-edged knife.  In the midst of it all, I have been doing. . .Stuff

Among the various stuff is Writing Stuff, naturally enough.  I wrote a scene in which two characters I had despaired of getting together meet naturally and cleanly, and even for reasons Dictated By The Plot.  This probably pleases me much more than it should, but writers are odd creatures, with strange pleasures.

I have started the short story commissioned by Baen.com in support of Neogenesis, and have figured out how to accommodate an editorial suggestion, which also pleases me, since, frankly, I didn’t think there was any way in heck. . .  But, there, writers are odd creatures, with sideways minds that occasionally work for the common good.

I converted one more eChapbook to a paper edition — that would be Technical Details: Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 21, including “Landed Alien” and author-favorite “Eleutherios”. Here’s your link.

My standing desk conversion arrived, with the sooperdooper floor mat.  I’ve been liking it in the standing position, but — alas! — my chair doesn’t rise high enough to make it perfectly comfortable to engage with while seated.  I shall seek out a cushion.

Also!  I have been remiss in reporting here that “Wise Child,” was chosen by readers — out of a VERY stiff field! — as the Best Military and Adventure SF of 2016.

The Readers Choice Award was presented at the Baen Traveling Roadshow at DragonCon over this past weekend, Jim Minz accepting for Lee and Miller.  Photographs were allegedly taken, and will be forthcoming.

The prize is a plaque and $500.

Thanks to everyone who voted for Tolly and Disian.  Steve and I are very proud authors, indeed.

And, now!

I need to do some chores and go to town before the thunderstorms start again.

Everybody stay safe.


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News you Need

So, I’ve been trying to get to a detailed post about the Bingham Carousel Circuit, but in truth, it may not happen.  We’re having a sudden and very intense bout of Life here, which I guess means we timed our vacation correctly, because now have the resources necessary to get through this bit.

In and around Life, however, there are things that you — yes, you! — need to know, which are (read carefully):

ONE:  Today! August 29 2017 is Alliance of Equals‘ mass market paperback book day!  Go, Alliance of Equals!

TWO:  The number of Pinbeam Books (that would be Steve and me, cleverly disguised as our own publisher) chapbooks which have been converted to paper now numbers six (and six shall be the number).  To wit:
Liaden Universe® titlesChange Management, Due Diligence, Sleeping with the Enemy
Sharon Lee titles:  Barnburner, Gunshy, Spell Bound

THREE:  Our mole deep inside Baen Books has informed us that the eARC for Neogenesis, scheduled to be published in hardcover January 2, 2018, will be released in September (good ghod, that’s, like, Friday!).  We do not have a release date, but you might do very well to Watch the Skies, and while you’re doing that, spreading the word to your friends, your co-workers, your best enemies, your mom, and, well — everybody.

So!  That’s what I’ve got.  I will, I suspect, Be Scarce for the next while.  I’m fine; just coping.

Be excellent to each other.

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Oh, baby you’re the only thing in this whole world that’s pure and good and right

So, last night, just as we were going to bed, we had a bat invasion.  Followed a fun-filled 45 minutes while we convinced the coon cats that it was not their bat, but our bat; got Scrabble back from the Big Dark Outside, when she strolled while we were holding the door open for the bat to exit; and last but not least, I executed a net-throw that would have won applause in any gladiatorial display, and brought the bat down mid-flight, into the shopping bag that Steve was holding ready.

Yes, sometimes we really are that good.  The “net” by the way, was a mosquito net meant to be worn over a hat.  Here’s a picture.

The bat was taken outside and released, whereupon we went to bed, but the coon cats did not, choosing instead to prowl the house, looking for their bat.


As of this morning, Sleeping with the Enemy: Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 22, by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller is available in paper from Amazon only.  Here’s your link.

I will be converting the rest of the chapbooks as I have time and energy.  Nothing like a firm schedule, am I right?

As of this writing, in addition to Sleeping. . .  Change Management: Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 23and Due Diligence: Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 24 are also available in digital and paper editions.

And, now, having goofed off much of the morning; it’s time to go to work.

See you on the flip-side.

Today’s blog post title brought to you by — of course! — Meatloaf, “Bat out of Hell.”  Here’s your link.

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In which the author is out of words

So, I haven’t done a catch-up post in a few days. That would be because — there’s nothing really to catch up on.

We took a drive down to Old Orchard Beach last weekend and had a nice, relaxing time walking the beach and the town, sitting in the sun on the mall, eating ice cream and people-watching.  Hard to get enough people-watching.  Or, yanno, ice cream.

Steve and I have been alternating reading stories aloud for bi-weekly posting on Patreon, where they’re available to patrons only for a month, before being moved to Splinter Universe, for the perusal of all.  Tomorrow, around noon, Eastern, “The Beggar King” will reveal itself, read by me, with a little help from Scrabble.  Previous readings have been, Steve reading “A Night at the Opera;” me reading “The Gift of Music;” and Steve reading “Charioteer.”  It’s about time for “Opera” to disappear from Patreon and re-appear on Splinter Universe.

For those coming in late, the Lee and Miller Patreon page is here.  Back in April, we introduced a new goal of $2,500/month.  As of this writing, we are a scant $96 from realizing that goal.

We’ve also been participating in #1stChapterFriday on Twitter, along with many of our colleagues.  Follow the hashtag for some provocative reading.  Or, here’s a link that may or may not work (the ways of Twitter remain a Mystery, I fear).

As some of you may know, the twentieth novel set in the Liaden Universe®, and the fifth detailing the on-going adventures of Theo Waitley, aka The Gathering Edge, was published earlier this month.  This is where I ask those who have read it to please take the time to leave a review on Amazon, BN, Goodreads, or other sites.  As last year, with Alliance of Equals, we’re hoping to hit the Magic Number of 100 Reader Reviews on Amazon.  Alliance wound up with 263 reviews, and TGE is well on her way, with 87 reviews already posted.

I find, in fact, that I am remiss in announcing here that The Gathering Edge hit Number Four on the Bookscan Bestseller list for the week of May 11.

And that?  Is all I’ve got, except a sincere Thank you! for everything you do, from reading our books, to recommending them to friends, to donating to our various causes, to writing encouraging letters.  We’d couldn’t have gotten so far on this long, strange, sometimes scary, artistic journey we set ourselves on, without you.  Every one of you.

So, give yourselves a pat on the back, and bask for a moment in the gratitude of authors (I naturally can’t promise you the gratitude of cats, though I’m sure they’d appreciate y’all too, if it happened to occur to them) — and enjoy the weekend.

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Five Minutes of Fame

So, yesterday, Steve and I journeyed to Augusta, where we meeted and greeted and talked and signed and importuned people who were on important errands and in general had a very good time being Authors on Display at Barnes and Noble.

We sold out of the Carousel Tides.  Apparently, if I could have somehow wandered the country, pressing the book into the hands of young women while whispering haunted carousel, I’d’ve had a bestseller on my hands.  We also sold a smattering of other books, including the new one!, and had a bunch of interesting conversations.  Only one person said “Ick!” (literally), when we told her the books were science fiction and fantasy, and several people took bookmarks/postcards for their sons, sons-in-laws.  Apparently, there are no daughters/daughters-in-law who read science fiction or fantasy.

Today, it’s back to work.  Steve is re-reading Neogenesis; I’ve just finished recording “The Beggar King,” which will be posted on Patreon on May 27, and, when I’m finished this blog post, I’ll meander out to the kitchen to put together a pot of lentil soup against the general gray-and-pouring-down-rain-ness of the day.

And so it goes.  We don’t have anything but writing a book on the professional calendar until August.  On the Real Life calendar, aside the ubiquitous health things, there’s the possibility of going to the Kite Festival at Bug Light Park on Saturday, and scheduling the installation of the new roof (metal this time), but nothing really pressing there, either.  A quiet-ish few months.  That’s not all bad.

Hope everyone is having a pleasant weekend.

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Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

Y’all know what tomorrow is, right?


Tomorrow is Saturday, May 13, the day that Steve and I will be doing a meet ‘n greet, and signing books at Barnes and Noble, 9 Marketplace Drive, Augusta Maine, from 1 to 3 pm.  Stop by and say hi.  Here’s a link for further information.

Tomorrow is also the day that the next special goody for patrons only goes live on Patreon.  This week’s goody is Steve, reading his story “Charioteer.”  Here’s your link to the Lee and Miller Patreon page.

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First Chapter Friday: Barnburner

So, back in 1994, having nothing better to do with my time (the Liaden series was, according to Those Who Know, dead, forever dead, and Lee and Miller were washed-up authors), I outlined (insomuch &c) three kinda-cozy mysteries, set in the fictitious town of Wimsy, Maine, which is situated between the very real towns of Waterville and Winslow, Maine, on the shore of the equally fictitious Big  Smoke River.

If you like what you read here, you can purchase and download the rest of the book from Baen ebooks, as well as from Amazon, BN, Kobo, and iBooks (here’s a universal link).

Excerpt from Barnburner, © Sharon Lee 1994

Central Maine

THE PICKUP TRUCK HAD been blue once, but general neglect and six winters of road salt had scrubbed it down to gray. It was lacy with rust around the wheel wells—salt again—and clanged like a sheet metal convention the long way down the drive and into the dooryard.
I rinsed out the coffee mug and put it to drain, pulled the plug in the kitchen sink and wiped my hands down the seat of my jeans.
“Harry’s here,” I told Jasper, a banality he vanquished with a single flick of his right ear. Jasper’s ears are very expressive. Mostly they express Jasper’s irritation with his present body servant. Jasper had been quite happy with his former servant, my Aunt Jennifer, and had been inclined from the first to lay blame for her sudden and unexplained desertion squarely at my door.
I inclined my head as I passed him in his window-perch—”Your Majesty”—worked the latch on the ancient plank door and stepped out onto the porch.
Harry was standing on the truck’s risky back bumper, bent over the gate and swearing so matter-of-factly that she might have been holding a Sunday social conversation with the rusty bedboards.
“Gotcha!” she announced as I came down the porch steps.
Awkwardly, she gathered a brown paper shopping bag into her arms and came upright, swaying with a certain Chaplin-esque precaritybefore simply stepping backward off the bumper.
I stretched my legs. Harry hit the ground, tottered—and grinned up at me as I grabbed her shoulders.
“Damn good thing you happened by. I’d’ve bruised my ass.”
I laughed. “What’s in the bag?”
“Beans,” Harry said, with relish. She headed for the porch, bag cradled against her chest.
“Beans,” I repeated, eyeing the bag with misgiving.
“Cull beans,” Harry expanded, setting the bag on the top step and treating me to another grin. “Least, it’s what they said down to the company. Bought a sackful for the sheep, opened her up just now—damn beans are just about perfect. Thought you could use some, with winter coming.”
The Maine year is measured by winter—it’s either coming, just gone, or here. In this case, Harry’s point was made with a Mainer’s understatement: it was mid-October, and winter breathing down our necks.
“Brought twenty pound, thereabout,” Harry said, pulling her flannel shirt straight. “Go on and bring out some bowls. I’ll sit an hour and help you pick ’em.”
Twenty pounds of beans, I thought, dismally. What on earth was I going to do with twenty pounds of beans?
It was impossible not to take the beans, just as it was impossible to decline the offered assistance. Manners, Jen, I told myself severely and started into the house.
“Glass of cider?” I asked Harry, holding the door open on my fingertips.
“That’d be fine.”
Haroldene Pelletier was Jennifer Pierce’s oldest friend and I had inherited her, with the house and Jasper, when Aunt Jen died, two years ago. She was a stocky, gap-toothed woman with shoulder-length gray hair squeezed flat under a succession of well-used peaked caps. Today’s hat was blue, with a faded GMC logo over the bill. It looked about as old as the usetabe-blue pickup.
I handed Harry a beer mug filled with cider and sat down on the step, the bag of beans between us. I waited until she’d had a sip before handing her the largest of Aunt Jen’s nesting pottery bowls.
“Good cider,” she said, setting the mug down with a thump.
“Morris brought it by yesterday.”
“Morris” is Mainer for Maurice. This particular Maurice is DuChamp, owner of Old Smoky Orchard, and, as far as I knew, the last of my aunt’s living bequests.
“Well, we’ve had our differences,” Harry said, which was her standard Morris line, “but I will say Morris DuChamp knows how to behave.”
She unrolled the top of the bag and reached in, pulling out a fistful of beans. She opened her fingers and showed me: pale beans with a scattering of faded red freckles along the seam, liberally mixed with stones, sticks, bits of hay, and beans that were nowhere near “perfect.”
I set the enameled colander one step down, hooked a leg up, planted the opposite foot two steps down (“High pockets,” Harry said, the first time we met. “Just like your aunt.”), and nestled the second-largest bowl in the crook of my knee.
“What kind of beans are these?” I asked, gamely reaching into the bag and hauling out a fistful.
“Soldier,” Harry said, head bent over her hand. “You got a good recipe for baked beans in your aunt’s card tin—’Thena Gagnon copied it out for her. Bean pot used to be in the bottom of the hutch.”
At first, it had frosted me utterly that these people—these strangers—knew more about the contents and keepings of my home than I did. Now and then I still had the urge to move everything in the house completely around and then hold a potluck for the neighbors. It was only the bone-deep belief that the neighbors would work day and night to put everything back “right” that saved the house and Jasper from disruption.
I opened my fist and began to sort. Sticks, stones and icky wrinkly, dried-up once-beans were the easy discards. They clattered into the colander like sudden hail.
Now, for the harder choices. I chose a pristine, plump specimen from the pile in my palm and dropped it into my bowl. Another… another.
The next one was slightly wrinkled. I consider it; flicked it into the colander.
“You be at the meeting tonight?”
I sighed down at my little clutch of beans.
“It was on my sheet yesterday,” I said, sounding almost as grumpy as I felt. “I guess it’ll be on my sheet today.” I discarded a cracked bean and a wrinkled one and hesitated over a pea-sized specimen before dropping it into the bowl.
“I wish Reverend Stern would get a life,” I grumbled.
Harry sniffed. “Always poking his nose into other people’s houses,” she said, sorting beans with efficient flicks of her finger. Her bowl was filling rapidly; the discards to the colander alarmingly few. “That way in elementary school. No use looking for him to change now.”
“Maybe he’ll move away,” I suggested.
Harry raised wide eyes to my face. “Whatever for?”
I grinned, sourly. “Yeah, why move to a city and be just another crank when you can be a big fool in a little town?”
Harry gave a crack of laughter. “Boss fish eats better than the minnows,” she commented and shook her head. “Where does that man get his money?”
“He goes to Boston once a month and robs a bank.”
“Wouldn’t think he was bold as that.”
I hiccuped against a laugh and threw Harry a grin. “You’re probably right.”
“Not as if they didn’t come asking for notice,” Harry said, reaching into the bag for another fistful of beans. “He’s quiet enough, but her—she might as well have popped the Reverend in the nose and had done with it.”
Him and her were Scott and Merry Ash, who’d bought the old Johnson place at the top of the Point Road. They’d moved in at the end of mud season—which is called April in most of the rest of the country—and started fixing the place up: roof, shingles, dooryard steps. They’d cleared the rubbish out of the abandoned kitchen garden and put in a modest planting, to the general approval of the neighborhood.
Scott acquitted himself well under interrogation by the old men who held morning court at Christie’s Donuts. He had admitted to planning for a sheep or two, an herb garden for Merry, setting in more vegetables, maybe starting a hive.
Nice young couple, the preliminary verdict went out from the donut court. Want to do right by the land.
Then Merry hit town.
In this age of Christian fundamentalism, Merry Ash is a Witch or—her preference—a Wiccan. Which is to say, a person embracing a specifically non-Christian—some insist, pre-Christian—belief system. Wicca honors a Goddess and a God, and a Wiccan keeping to the letter of her Rede honestly strives to “harm none.”
Wimsy is home to half-a-dozen assorted pagans that I know of, and probably twice that many who prefer to keep their beliefs quite, quite secret. What set Merry and Scott apart was that neither of them attempted to hide their affiliation. Indeed, Merry set out to educate others about her beliefs, and quickly became one of the more popular—and controversial—speakers at the local schools.
But trouble, when it sprang, didn’t spring from a Wiccan-versus-Christian matter at all.
It exploded out of the abortion debate.
Reverend Stern was pro-life, militantly so. He picketed the Wimsy Medical Center, there being no “abortionaries” on this side of the Smoke. He’d had a heart attack in February which had kept him close to home all summer, but before that he’d traveled extensively throughout Maine and the rest of the continental forty-eight, to the relief of the greater portion of Wimsy’s townsfolk, organizing rallies at other hospitals, medical centers and clinics.
In June, he’d taken his fervor to the streets, organizing a couple dozen staunch supporters to march as a bloc in the annual We Are Wimsy Day Parade.
So, picture it: Reverend Stern and his followers, with their placards of graphically ravaged fetuses, jostling through the crowd to find their place in the parade queue—and coming face-to-placard with Merry Ash and the founding membership of Gaia Coven.
The Wimsy Voice had been there, which meant me and Dan Skat. Dan won Best Grab from the Mid-Maine Newspaper Association for the shot of Merry wrenching Reverend Stern’s placard out of his hands.
Merry was ticketed by Officer Vince Kellor and had to pay a fine for littering. After she beat the placard to death against the side of the post office she left the pieces scattered around the parking lot.
If she’d thrown the bits into the rubbish bin, Vince told the Voice, he’d have had no cause to write any tickets. Far as he knew, there wasn’t no law against busting placards. As for the placard in question having belonged to Reverend Stern before its demise—”The gentleman was not able to prove ownership.”
“You know,” Harry commented, dry-voiced. “I bet some of them beans’ll cook up just as good as those pretty ones you’re keeping.”
I started, recalled to the present, and looked up guiltily.
“Too picky, huh?”
Harry sighed. “I don’t know how them folks in the city get on.”
“Too picky,” I concluded, and felt a sweep of nostalgia for the bright, wide-aisled supermarkets of my hometown.
Gamely, I reached into the bag again, deliberately chose a wrinkled bean and dropped it into my bowl.
“Bad enough they write letters back and forth to each other, clogging up the whole newspaper,” Harry continued, back with Scott and Merry and Reverend Stern. “But when he comes knocking on doors and quoting Scripture at me during my supper-hour—” She shook her head, and hauled another fistful of beans out of the bag.
The letter-writing war had been closely followed by all of Wimsy. Merry, at least, stuck to the abortion issue, and if she did from time to time cite her authority as a Wiccan High Priestess, it was no less than Reverend Stern did, by claiming a first-name relationship with Jesus.
But the Reverend just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Merry looked like getting the best of him in the abortion debate, to judge by the letters that poured through the Voice’s editorial desk, and he’d veered off into “Thou shalt not suffer a Witch” territory.
This had proved to be an unexpectedly fruitful field and the Reverend had tilled it and tended it with the devotion of a fanatic all the long, letter-writing summer.
But even that fertile territory had started to dry up after awhile. Folks started to write less fevered, more normal letters to the editor; Gaia Coven opened a co-op on Main Street; those who did went upcountry, late summer, and raked blueberries for their winter’s cash. The staff of the Wimsy Voice breathed a cautious sigh of relief.
Then Scott applied for the town’s permission to fix his barn.
Since there were significant portions of former barn still standing, this should have been a formality. Scott went to Town Hall on Thursday, filled out the form and paid his three dollar fee. Friday morning, the clerk posted his request and two others like it on the public notice board. There it was destined to remain until the next Friday, by which time anyone with objections should have come forward and said their piece.
Reverend Stern didn’t stop with saying his piece to the Wimsy Town Clerk. No sir. Reverend Stern took to the streets, to the churches and, yes, once again to the letters page of the Voice.
“Calling a whole meeting over a barn,” Harry grumbled, sorting beans like a dervish. “Think even Butchie Stern’d have more sense than that.”
I choked. “Butchie?”
She looked at me from under her lashes, sidewise-sly. “What we called him in elementary school.”
“I love it.”
“Don’t you go using that in no story,” Harry admonished. “Have him after me in the editorials.”
She flicked the last bean from her palm to her bowl and rubbed her hands down faded denim thighs.
“Time to be getting on,” she said, putting the bowl up. “This here’s enough to get you started.”
She swigged the dregs of her cider and stood. “You look up that recipe, now, and let me know how you like them beans.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, unwinding from the step and walking with her toward the faded blue truck. I smiled as she hauled herself into the driver’s seat. “Thanks, Harry.”
“You betcha. See you at meeting.”
I blinked in surprise. “You’re going?”
“Wouldn’t miss that show for the world,” she said and started the truck with a roar.

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