Swamp Girls
The swamp has swallowed Mom whole.
I halt, feet lodged in muck. Cleo’s boots clomp clomp clomp as she keeps trudging along, splashing gray-brown water against my pants.
“Wait,” I say.
Cleo grips her pack straps with grime-streaked hands. “You can’t stop now, Clara. Mom needs us!”
If Mom needed us, she would’ve
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