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With an OverDrive account, you can save your favorite libraries for at-a-glance information about availability. Find out more about OverDrive accounts. New York Times bestselling author Maureen Johnson's funny, heartbreaking, and utterly romantic tale gets a great new cover! Ginny Blackstone never thought she'd spend her summer vacation backpacking across Europe. But that was before she received the first little blue envelope from Aunt Peg. Armed with instructions for how to retrieve twelve other letters Peg wrote—twelve letters that tell Ginny where she needs to go and what she needs to do when she gets there—Ginny quickly finds herself swept away in her first real adventure.

She needed money anyway. All she had left was a handful of strangely shaped coins, which she hoped would be enough to get her back to Harrods. Ginny snatched up the directions that Richard had written for her minutes before, dumped the offending juice down the sink, and headed for the door.

The sign on the front listed several famous-sounding destinations, including Knightsbridge, and the number matched one of the bus numbers Richard had given her. There was a small bus shelter a few feet away, and it looked like the bus planned on stopping there. Two black poles with illuminated yellow globes on top of them marked the opening of the pedestrian crossing.

Ginny ran to these, glanced to make sure the coast was clear, and started to run across the road. Sudden honking. A big black cab whizzed past her. As Ginny jumped back, she saw something written on the road. She managed to get across the road and tried to ignore the fact that everyone on one side of the bus had just witnessed her 43 near-death experience. She had no idea what to pay the driver. Ginny helplessly held out her little bit of remaining money and he took one of the fat coins.

She went up the narrow spiral staircase in the middle of the bus. There were many seats available, and Ginny took one at the very front. The bus started to move. It felt like she was floating. From her perspective, it looked like the bus was running over countless pedestrians and bicyclists, squashing them into oblivion.

She pushed herself farther back into the seat and tried not to pay any attention to this. Except they had to have just killed that guy on the cell phone.

Ginny waited to feel the bump as the bus rolled over his body, but it never came. She looked around at the imposing facades of the stately buildings around her. The sky went from cloudy to gray in the space of a moment, and rain started hammering the wide windows in front of her. Now it looked like they were mowing down huge crowds of umbrella carriers.

She looked down at her smattering of remaining coins. Her parents somehow made this fact apparent without ever coming out and saying it. Still, it never seemed like Aunt Peg was wanting for anything.

She always seemed to have enough money to take Ginny for frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity, or to buy her piles of art supplies, or to make her elaborate Halloween 44 costumes, or to get that jar of really good caviar she bought once just because she thought Ginny should taste it.

It was still gross. Pounds seemed possible. Pounds sounded like they should come in the form of tiny burlap bags tied in rough string, filled with little bits of metal or shiny objects.

Aunt Peg could have that kind of money. Richard had gotten there first and was waiting in a booth. He smiled and dabbed some ketchup onto his steak. Ginny tried not to wince. I make arrangements to get it to them. And occasionally, occasionally, I get to set up royal visits. One day, we got a call from the palace that the queen wanted to come 45 over that evening, in just a few hours. She never does that. But this night she wanted to come in, and there was no one else available.

So I had to take care of her. Big ones. Very nice ones as well, but big ones. I mailed the package. I suppose you know that? Someone had to send it. We were good mates. About your family. I felt like I knew you before you ever got here. His sudden directness. They both stopped to watch her pick them up. Richard showed Ginny to the ATM and returned to work, with the promise of seeing her in the evening.

She approached one and stuck in the card. The machine politely asked for a code. The machine purred and showed her a few advertisements about how she could save for a home, and then it asked her what she wanted. She had no idea what she wanted, but she had to pick something. Some number.

There were lots of numbers to choose from. Twenty pounds, please. That seemed like a good, basic kind of number. She was on her own. She would need to buy things and get around, so. One hundred pounds, please. The machine asked for a moment. Ginny felt her stomach drop. Then a stack of crisp purple and blue notes different sizes: Now she got it. Aunt Peg had come through. Why Mysterious Benefactor Day? Well, Gin, let me give you a because: You need a little serendipity, a little luck, a little boost.

Make someone think that wonderful things are happening to them for no reason they can see. Step one: Withdraw pounds from the account. Step two: Find an artist in London whose work you like, someone you think deserves a break. This is going to require some looking around on your part. Any kind of artist—a painter, a musician, a writer, an actor. Step three: You are so wrong, Gin. Those are your orders.

Love, Your Runaway Aunt The Benefactor The next morning, after reading her letter and splashing around in the tub, Ginny joined Richard at the kitchen table.

He was loosely dressed—unbuttoned shirt, undone tie—and was roughly flipping through the sports section of the paper and shoving pieces of toast into his mouth. Sounds like a Peg task. For someone who lived pretty randomly, she was a bit of a neat freak. Shelia Studies, paintings by Romily Mezogarden.

Harry Smalls, demolition artist. She managed to make it to the front door just a second before he did, and they walked out into the drizzly morning together. No one was there, but the girl behind the counter was making a whole pitcher of beet juice anyway. She waved a purple-stained hand at them as they came in. Shelia had a large, flat head with a square chunk of yellow hair sticking up out of it.

Shelia usually just stood around 4: Shelia Standing; 7: Shelia Standing in 54 Bedroom; Shelia Standing in Road. Sometimes, she would stand around and hold things Shelia with Eggbeater or look at things Shelia Looking at Pencil , and then she would get tired and sit 9: Shelia Sitting on Box. That seemed like a lot, considering that they were really ugly and the whole thing seemed uncomfortably stalker-like.

These could be the greatest pictures in the world. There were people who could tell these things. She was not one of them. Still, it seemed like she should have a slight air of competence. She got the strange feeling that somehow Richard was expecting her to know something. All kinds of things.

Half a briefcase. Half a sofa. Half a mattress. Half a tube of toothpaste. Half an old car. Ginny thought this one over, then asked herself if she really wanted to give almost a thousand dollars to a guy who had a chain saw problem.

Once they were back outside, Ginny struggled to come up with another idea. Street musicians, people like that? Lots of performers. All sorts of things going on, people selling things. It has its own tube stop. Come on, then. There was nothing garden-like about Covent Garden. It was a large cobblestoned plaza, jammed with tourists and stalls of knickknacks. There was also no shortage of performers. She gave it her best, spending over an hour sitting on the curb, watching.

Some guys juggled knives. Several guitarists of varying quality played either acoustically or through banged-up amps. A magician pulled a duck from his coat. She could picture the scene—the astonished knifethrowers looking at the flutter of twenty-pound notes. She gripped the money in her pocket, balled it tight, then got up and started walking. The sun was making more of an effort today, and the Londoners seemed to appreciate it. Ginny wandered around the stalls, wondering if she should buy Miriam a T-shirt.

Then she was walking down a street full of bookstores. Her chances of succeeding seemed to be rapidly dwindling. Plus, the advertisement gave directions. It seemed worth a try. She found herself on a city street, with a few fairly modern academic buildings scattered around.

How did you like the book?

Of course, she realized, it was also summer, and evening, which meant no school and no students. She wandered around, glancing at a few flyers stuck to notice boards and walls. A few protests. Yoga classes. A few album releases. She was about to turn and give up when a flapping piece of paper caught her eye. There was a cartoon of a man diving into a coffee cup.

The bottom of the flyer said that the show was written, produced, directed, and designed by someone named Keith Dobson. Something about this just sounded promising. And it was still going on—even now, in the summer. Tickets, the flyer promised, were on sale in something called the uni. She asked a girl passing by what it was. There was a flyer for the show stuck to the door and a pale redheaded guy visible through the nine inches of plastic window that made this a box office and not a closet.

He looked up from a copy of War and Peace. He held up his hands and indicated eight. She dug around in her pocket and found one of the tiny five-pound notes and three of the pound coins and carefully pressed these through the slot in the plastic, and he pulled a photocopied ticket from a cigar box and passed it over to her.

Then he jerked his finger, pointing her toward two red double doors at the end of the hall. It was a little damp. A few fake palm trees had been pushed off to the side.

The seats were mostly empty and a few people sat on the floor or on steps in the back of the room. All in all, there were only maybe ten people in the audience. Most of them were smoking and talking to one another. It felt like a private party in a basement.

She was thinking about getting up and leaving just as a girl appeared in the doorway near where she had come in and flipped off the light switches. Punk music started to blast from a few scattered speakers on one side of the room. A moment later, it stopped abruptly, and a light came on in the middle of the stage. Standing there was a guy, maybe her age or just a little older, dressed in a green kilt, a Starbucks shirt, heavy black boots, and a top hat.

A fringe of light reddish hair stuck out from under the 59 hat, brushing along the top of his shoulders. He had a wide, slightly evil grin. More insults. He seemed to like that.

It ended tragically when she stopped drinking coffee, and he threw himself offstage into what was supposed to be the Main Bean Supply. All of this was somehow arranged by Jittery, who remained onstage the entire time, talking to the audience, telling Joe what to do, and holding up signs that gave statistics on how the global economy was wrecking the environment.

There were a lot of random things going on, like a guy who sometimes rode through the scene on a bike for no reason that Ginny could figure. Despite all of that, Ginny found herself quickly and totally engrossed—and she knew why.

She had a thing for performers. It probably had something to do with all of the performances Aunt Peg had taken her to as a kid. Or singing, dancing, telling jokes. Flaunting themselves with no embarrassment. He jumped around the stage. He prowled through the audience. He owned the place. When it was all over, she picked up a program someone had left on the seat next to her and read it.

Keith Dobson—director, writer, producer—also happened to play Jittery Grande. Keith Dobson was her artist. And she had little burlap sacks to give to him. The next morning, as she made her way down the long linoleum hallway to the little ticket closet, Ginny realized that her shoes were squeaky.

Really squeaky. She stopped and looked down at her sneakers. There they were, white with pink stripes, poking out below the heavy olive drab of her cargo shorts. She remembered the exact sentence from the travel guide that had caused her to choose these shoes out of all possible shoes: Sneakers are universally acceptable, and white ones will keep you cool in the summer. Hated it, and the person who wrote it.

These shoes made her stand out—and not just because of the noise. White sneakers were the Official Shoe of Tourists. This was London, and the real Londoners wore skinny heels or Euroshoes in weird colors or coffee-colored leather boots. No one wore shorts either. Anyway squeak, squeak , what was she supposed to do? Well, she could, but then there was no way of making sure it would get to him. She would just buy the tickets quickly and anonymously. It was the best way.

Tickets were eight pounds. Ginny quickly did the math in her head, then strode up to the window. The guy looked up from his copy of War and Peace. He had come pretty far in one day, Ginny noticed. The Simpsons shirt was the same, though. Then he shut it decisively. It seemed to suddenly get very loud. In New Jersey? Five pounds each. Lots more. He was really pale. She guessed that was what happened if you spent the summer in a basement, sitting in a closet next to a bucket.

You can have the other twenty-two. Ginny thanked him and stepped over the bucket and counted out her tickets and remaining money. Seventy tickets. One hundred forty-two more pounds to benefact. Behind her, she heard a noise. The liberated ticket seller stepped out of his closet, nodded to her, and carried the cigar box of money down the hall, upstairs, and into the light of day.

She noticed that a hastily scrawled sign had appeared in the window. But now no one would see him perform, starting immediately. She went into such a panic that she forgot where the tube stop was and circled the same block three times, and when she finally did find it, there was only one place she could think to go. Back to Harrods. Back to Richard. Back to the same chocolate counter in the food hall because at least she knew they had a phone and the guide there. Richard dutifully came down and escorted her to the Krispy Kreme.

Yes, Harrods had a Krispy Kreme. This store really did have it all. The Musical? It lacked the three-story-high billboards that sparkled and revolved and had gold fringe. There were no massive, illuminated cups of ramen noodles, no skyscrapers. It was much more subdued, with only a few posters and signs marking out the territory. The theaters were stark, serious-looking places.

She immediately knew this was not going to work. For a start, she was American, and she looked like a tourist, and it kept starting to rain and then stopping. How was she supposed to show people what the show was, where it was, what it was about? And who was going to want to know about Starbucks: She stationed herself near a massive brick theater off Leister Square, right by a kiosk filled with theater information.

For the next hour or so, she just stood there, biting at her lower lip, clutching the tickets. She dragged herself back across town to Goldsmiths. He was black, with short dreadlocks and sleek rimless glasses. I have free tickets. A free one. Busy tonight. That was as close as she got to success. She sank down onto the bench at the bus stop and pulled out her notebook.

June 25 7: Dear Miriam, I have always been kind of proud that I have never lost it over a guy. I have never been one of those people who freaked out in the bathroom or did something lame like 1. You were obsessed with Paul all last summer. I mean, I love you dearly, but you do. I am kind of sort of interested in someone who could never, ever like me. His name is Keith. He does not know me. Because he is 1.

Den Waters. Made out with him exactly three times, all three of which he did the scary lizard-tongue thing and thanked me afterward. Mike Riskus, who I obsessed over for two years and never even spoke to until right before Christmas last year. So, as you can see, my chances are incredibly good, given my wide appeal and experience. But you know that. Since two people had already purchased tickets before Ginny got there and she had used one herself, this meant that absolutely no one she had given tickets to had come.

Her Japanese girls had let her down. The result of this was that the cast of Starbucks: The Musical outnumbered the audience, and Jittery seemed very aware of the fact. That might have been the reason he decided to skip intermission and keep right on going, eliminating any chance of letting his audience escape.

He took the opportunity to dive into the seats and even to climb one of the fake palm trees that sat on the side of the room. At the end, as Ginny leapt up to make her escape, Jittery suddenly jumped down off the stage as she was reaching down to get her bag.

He dropped into the empty seat next to her. She never thought that was literal. Well, she was wrong. You could lose the ability to speak. She felt it right at the top of her throat—a little tug, like the closing of a drawstring bag. Again, nothing.

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He folded his arms over his chest, looking like he was prepared to wait forever for an explanation. Speak, dammit! He shook his head and ran his hand over his hair until it stuck up in high, staticky strands.

Her name. She could handle that. Why had she given two? A nod. She was named after her grandmother. But now that she thought of it, it was technically true. She was named after a state. She had the most ridiculously American name ever. He pulled a tattered canvas bag from behind it. Well, then. This is England. We go to pubs. The kilt he left on. You want to go, yes? The night had become misty. The glowing yellow orbs of the crossing lights and the car headlights cut strange patterns through the fog.

Keith walked briskly, his hands buried in his pockets. He occasionally glanced over his shoulder to make sure Ginny was still with him. She was just a pace or two behind. Girls can walk beside men, go to school, everything. There were so many pubs. They were everywhere. Pretty pubs painted in bright colors with carefully made wooden signs. Keith walked past all these to a shabbier-looking place where people stood out on the sidewalk with big pints of beer.

Discounts for students. Just act like you belong and no one will say a word. Come on. There was a solid wall of people guarding it and a haze of smoke hanging over it, as if it had its very own weather. You try to find somewhere to stand. Ginny squeezed in between a clump of guys in brightly colored soccer 74 shirts who were standing along a little ledge.

They kept punching one another. Ginny backed as far into the wall as she could go, but she was sure they would still manage to hit her. There was nowhere else to stand, though. She pressed herself in close and examined the sticky rings on the wood shelf and the ashy remnants in the ashtrays. An old Spice Girls song started playing, and the hitting guys began to do a hit dance that brought them even closer to Ginny. Keith found her there a few minutes later. He carried a pint glass full of a very dark liquid that was coughing up tiny brasscolored bubbles.

There was a thin layer of cloudy foam on top. He passed her the glass. It was heavy. She had a brief flash of the thick, warm Ribena and shuddered. For himself, Keith had gotten a Coke. He glanced behind him and placed himself between the dancing guys and Ginny.

The government issued me a special card. His eyes were very green, with a kind of gold starburst at the center that was just a little off-putting and intense. The Tower? Ginny had never tasted tree bark, but this was what she imagined it would be like if you ran it through a juicer. His career began with crawling over the fence to the garden of the local pub and begging for drinks or telling jokes for them. Then he figured out how to lock himself into his local at night by hiding in an under-used cupboard and get enough alcohol for himself and his friends.

The owners got so sick of being robbed that they gave up and hired him under the table. There followed a few years of breaking things for no reason and setting the occasional small fire. He decided to try stealing. At first, he stole little 76 things—candy bars, newspapers. He moved up to small appliances and electronics.

It finally ended for him after he broke into a takeout shop and was arrested for grand theft chicken kebab. After that, he decided to turn his life around. You know the Fringe? Took me forever to get the school to pay to send us up there, but I did it. And the foreign students are usually still here, wandering around.

She was clutching at her empty glass. Keith walked her along a different route, one that she would never have been able to find on her own, to the glowing red circle with the bar cutting through it that read underground. When she got to the platform, she saw that there was a pineapple sitting on the rails of the tracks. A whole pineapple in perfect condition.

Ginny stood on the very edge of the platform and looked down at it. It was hard to figure out how a pineapple could end up in a situation like that. She felt the whoosh of wind that she now knew accompanied the approach of the train.

Any second now it would come blasting through the tunnel and cross right over this spot. She stepped away from the edge, let the train go, and waited for it to pass away. She looked down. It was simply gone. It was possible to take apart a fake palm tree and fit it in a car. In fact, it was possible to take apart a whole set and get it in a car.

A little car. A little, white, very dirty Volkswagen. The Musical. They were heavy. But I have to make sure no one nicks them since the school paid for them. I mean, fake palm trees. These beat orange traffic cones any day of the week. These things are a prize. Ginny was duly stuffed in on the wrong side , and Keith got in on her right. As soon as Keith hit the gas, it sprang to life and rocketed to the corner of the street. It squealed slightly as he took the corner and plunged into the traffic on the main road, barely missing being knocked out of the way by a double-decker bus.

She could tell Keith was one of those guys who loved to drive—he switched through the gears with great intensity and as often as humanly possible and zigzagged his way through the congestion. A black cab was suddenly within inches of them. Ginny was face-to-face with a rather surprised-looking couple, who pointed at her fearfully.

They drove through part of Essex Road that Ginny knew. Who with? Posters and ads were glued to every surface, advertising reggae albums and Indian music. Ginny 82 found herself automatically marking the route in her mind, tracing a pattern of signs, posters, pubs, houses. Not that she would ever come here again, of course. It was just habit. They finally stopped on an unlit street with a long row of gray stone houses.

He swerved the car and parked at an angle to the curb. There were a lot of wrappers along the sidewalks and bottles in the little yards. A few of the houses were clearly unoccupied, with boards over the windows and signs pasted on the doors. Keith came around and opened her door, then pulled out all of the things that wedged her in. He opened the front gate of one of the houses and walked up to a bright red door with a yellow plastic window panel.

They unloaded the sloppily packed boxes and bags bit by bit. Once inside, they passed a kitchen and went right to a dark set of stairs, which Keith went up without switching on the light. At the top of the stairs, there was a strong smell of old cigarette smoke. Many objects were stuffed onto the landing—a crammed bookcase with a skull on top, a hat stand draped with shoes, a pile of clothes. He kicked these aside and opened the door they sat in front of. Most of the room was red.

The carpet was brick red. The saggy sofa was red. The multiple bean bags on the floor were red and black. Flyers for who knew how many student plays covered the walls, along with posters for Japanese animation and comic books.

The furniture consisted of plastic packing crates, with the occasional board laid across to make a shelf or table. Books and DVDs were piled everywhere. She turned to face the guy she had attempted to give a ticket to outside the uni—the one with the dreadlocks and the rimless glasses.

He was smiling knowingly. Her arms poked out of the stylishly shredded shoulders of her black T-shirt like two white pencils. Her eyes were round and deeply colored, and she had a pout. Her whiteblond hair looked over-processed to the point of being straw-like and visibly fragile. Yet somehow this damage complemented the wild, sophisticated way she piled it on top of her head. Automatically, Ginny looked down at herself—at her long green khaki cargo shorts, the same sneakers, her T-shirt and tiny hoodie.

The tourist clothes were even more painful than usual. David is my flatmate. She was strangely sure that whatever she said was going to cause Fiona to burst out laughing. Her stomach instantly knotted, and she tried to think of a snappy comeback. Packing accident. Late night. Stepladder miscalculation while getting some things out of the top of the closet.

They fight. And fight. And fight and fight and fight. The long version is that David wants to leave university and go to cooking school.

But Fiona wants him to go to Spain with her. She wants him to go, even though he needs to be here. We used to be good mates, but not anymore. But she was still caught up on the fact that Fiona was going to work in Spain.

Who just decided they were going to work in Spain? One entire painful summer of stocking razor refills and asking people if they wanted to sign up for the SnappyCard. Ginny tried to imagine that conversation. She had no idea why she said this. It was true, more or less. Fiona was elegant and striking. Okay, she looked a little like she had recently been raised from the dead—bony, shock-white hair, shredded clothes—but in a good way, of course.

You, however, have taste. Was it that you wanted me all to yourself? Command performance? There was some kind of dare in his eyes. And for some reason, the only impulse Ginny had was to reach into her pocket, clutch the money in a tight grip, and drop it on the table.

It slowly unballed itself, like a small purple monster that had just hatched.

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Little tiny pictures of the queen sprouted everywhere. Another show. It had to be one hundred forty-two. As she reached for the table to add these to the pile, she realized that the entire atmosphere in the room had just changed. Whatever conversation they might have been going to have was now canceled. Her strange, sudden gesture had shorted it out. She added the two pounds. Silence followed. Keith turned the radio up loud.

Her heart was going to explode. It was going to blast itself out of her chest and land on the sidewalk like a heaving, desperate fish. It would keep beating as long as it could, bouncing along the discarded wrappers and cigarette butts until it had calmed itself down. She saw the whole thing very clearly.

Much more clearly than she could picture what had just happened to her. Sweaty, balledup money and coins? And then ask to leave? Miriam was going to kill her. Either that or she was going to 87 haul her off to the home for the incurably stupid and romantically hopeless and leave her there forever.

And that was fine. That was where she belonged. She could live with her own kind there. The lights were off. He had gone to bed early. If he had been awake, she might have even talked this over with him.

Maybe he could reassure her, explain a way to undo what she had just done. But he was asleep. She dug the keys out of the crack in the step, wrestled with the locks, and let herself inside. She went to her room and, without switching on any lights, dug the packet of envelopes out of the front of her bag and pulled out the top one.

This next letter was covered in a pen-and-ink drawing of a castle high on a hill and the small figure of a girl on a path at its base. Moving on. Maybe not. I only have because my sophomore-year roommate was kung fu obsessed. The student goes off to get schooled.

I did it myself. After a few months in London, I decided to go and meet my idol, the painter Mari Adams. My dorm room in college was covered in pictures of her work. And pictures of her. Mari lives in Edinburgh, which is grand and spooky.

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Edinburgh Castle is a thousand years old or so and sits high up smack in the middle of the city on a big rock called The Mound. The entire city is ancient and strange, full of twisted little alleys called wynds. Murders, ghosts, political intrigue.

So I got on a train and went there. And she let me in. She even let me stay for a few days. I want you to meet her too.

Her kung fu is that powerful. Trust me on this one.

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School is in session! Love, Your Runaway Aunt The Runner Some people believe that they are guided by forces, that the universe cuts paths for them through the dense forest of life, showing them where to go. Ginny did not believe for a second that the whole universe was bending itself to her will. She did, however, entertain a slightly more specific and far-fetched idea—Aunt Peg had done this.

She had known the unknowable. She was sending Ginny to the very place that Keith had to go to anyway to work out some details for his show. This sometimes happened with Aunt Peg. She had a weird way of knowing things, an uncanny sense of timing. When Ginny was a kid, Aunt Peg had always managed to call whenever Ginny needed her: But did this really mean anything? Sure, in a purely hypothetical sense, she could even ask him if he wanted to go with her.

If she were someone other than herself, that was. Miriam would do it. Lots of people would do it.

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For a start, the mysterious benefactor task was done. She had no possible excuse for seeing Keith. And besides. It sounded like going to Canada. Not that big of a deal. Not like David and Fiona and the whole Spain thing. She spent the entire day at the house, debating the issue with herself. First, she watched TV. British television seemed to consist mostly of makeover shows. Garden makeovers. Fashion makeovers. House makeovers. Everything relating to change. It seemed like a hint.

Change something. Make a move. She turned off the television and looked around the living room. Cleaning often relaxed her. She did the dishes, brushed the crumbs off the table and chairs, folded the clothes. She spent a good half hour examining the strange machine with the small glass window and the alphabetical dial that was under the counter in the kitchen. At first, it looked like a very odd oven.

It took her a while to realize it was a washing machine. That was when 94 Richard called to say he would be home late. She would just walk. Ginny finds she must hold on to her wits. This time, there are no instructions. Sign in Continue with Facebook Continue with Google. No account yet? Sign up. For You Explore.

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