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65

“Kira,” I heard Martha’s voice near the house.

She hasn't even reached the porch yet, but she's already calling. Here is the sloth!

“I’m coming, my friend,” I answered in a disgusting high voice, laughing at certain people from our community.

She crept up to the front door and flung it open. But she couldn't even try. Martha stood near the steps and smiled.

“Hi, girlfriend,” she smiled defiantly and curtsied.

Once upon a time, Martha was bothered by our ridicule, she had more of this emotional substance in her head that always gets in the way of good jokes. I'm definitely a bad influence on her.

Satisfied, she went down to her, threw her hand on her shoulder, and we wandered past the colorful cottages of our community, which were always so popular with tourists who occasionally wandered to Reed's office. Each house has its own color, sometimes its own status.

Silence reigned in the only street of our small community. But this silence was deceptive. And invisibility too. We were in the
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