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Regular people are a house of cards, falling. It takes them seventy or eighty years to fall and in that time they never stop believing that they're making choices and having thoughts. They will hear me if they want to hear me.

If I were you—and right now, I almost am—I would worry about the Cult of Fenris and their mortal allies, not one much-diminished pack spirit.

"Hey, I know you," someone says from behind you.

A kid a few years younger than you pushes through the crowd. Skinny, pierced, dressed in a ratty purple Baja hoodie with buttons that read "They/Them," "Epicycle Bikes: Know the Path," and "Sierra Freak."

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