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“What the hell? Where did that come from?” She pats her head as if that will help.
“I’m trying to not let the bad guys who want to kill you find you too easily. We need a disguise.” I say it slowly, explaining it like I’m talking to a four-year-old.
She pinches my arm—hard.
“Damn, Mo. What?”
“I’m not a little kid! Be nicer.”
I scoff. Being nice is the last thing I’m worried about right now. Right now, we need a car.
And a gun.
