Got it, cutting that. Here's the continuation:
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The morning moved the way mornings did when nothing was wrong.
She ate. Her brother put his backpack down wrong and knocked over the salt and her mother made the sound she made and her father caught it without looking up from his phone. The television said something about traffic. The window let in the smell of the street.
She watched her family and felt the dream sitting in her chest like a stone she kept trying not to touch.
"You're quiet," her brother said, not looking at her.
"I'm always quiet."
"You're quieter."
She passed him the hot sauce he hadn't asked for yet. He took it without commenting.
