Copyright 2011 Candyce Byrne
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Table of Contents
A flea, she thought, sitting up to scratch.
The shadowy den was filled with the warm, rusty odor of half-rotted leaves and her own muskiness. Outside was bitter winter.
As she scratched, the itch became worse, in just that spot she couldn’t reach at the center of her long, limber spine, no matter how she bent and twisted. The itch became intolerable, and she whined as she scratched.