[The girl — Amma, whose stash of little girl's teeth he'd watched Camille dig up just this week — watches him sullenly a moment longer.
Then the vision warps.
Camille Preaker stands behind the barrier and she looks like hell. Tears, pale-cheeks and rough-ragged hair. There's scratches at her neck. Fingernails, too blunt to do any good. Lend any relief.]
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Then the vision warps.
Camille Preaker stands behind the barrier and she looks like hell. Tears, pale-cheeks and rough-ragged hair. There's scratches at her neck. Fingernails, too blunt to do any good. Lend any relief.]
...I didn't want to be like my family.