A Seven-Year-Old Boy Rode Three Miles Across Phoenix to Save His Little Sister
She picked up the card.
Then she reached into her purse again, took out a pen, turned the card over, and wrote on the back in small, precise numbers.
“My cell,” she said.
“The group administrator is named Denise.
I’m going to call her tonight.
Clara might need convincing.”
I took the card back.
Her number was written on the back of my flooring estimate sheet, the one I’d used to price the pharmacy job on Thomas Road.
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