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I was 16 years old when Carl Johnson died on this ribbon of a road that winds between the river and a limestone cliff. He was not much older. We never spoke a word to each other. At least, I have no memory of his voice. But his black eyes looked out on the world through long, angel lashes and all the girls agreed that he was beautiful. If you favored delicate-boned, olive skinned boys, that is, which I didn’t, preferring taller, sturdier types.
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