We, the Wounded, Must Share the Burden of Fear

We, the Wounded, Must Share the Burden of Fear

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We, the Wounded, Must Share the Burden of Fear

She seemed cool and collected when her big surgery date was confirmed. And the next day, Britt seemed better than fine — super, even. She was a blond blur of energy, a real firecracker, flinging jokes this way and that in her thick New Englander accent. I couldn’t have expected she’d be weeping mere hours later, overpowered by the realization that a “see you later” to friends is void of guarantee. Because when a person…

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