Memory

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I'm sobbing, hiding under my bed, clutching my stomach from the pain of a stomach bug. I haven't seen Mom in days, and there's no telling when Christy will be home. And there's no dinner. "What's up, buttercup?" Christy asks, pulling back the covers and brushing the hair out of my eyes.
"I'm sick." I say to her, wiping my eyes. I'm maybe nine, so Christy's eleven. "Well, don't worry." She says. "You'll be okay." Her face looks pale.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Nothing, buttercup. I'll make you some tea, and then you can try and get some sleep." She says, rubbing my back.
"I love you, Christy."
"Love you, Charlie."
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A/N:
Favorite day of the week?
-Kate

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