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Touch

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Touch.

         Jamie wasn’t used to being touched. At least not like this, Jamie was used to harsh, cruel, mean touch, like so many of her foster parents, like the people she met in prison.

         This new touch, wasn’t always soft, like when it held her hand under the blankets. Sometimes it was firm, like when it pulled the bottle out of her hands on bad days. It wasn’t always soothing, like when it traced her back after she woke from nightmares, sometimes it dipped below her waistline and drove her near insanity.

         But it was always loving, it was always Dani.