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“No. You need a friend. Let me help you fix the pleats.”

Sighing, she placed it under her desk lamp for the glue to set.

Against every instinct, she reached for a pair of tweezers. The dragon directed her, its LED pulsing like a heartbeat. “Gently. Now seal with a whisper of saliva—no, not glue. Glue is for machines. Spit is for souls.”

For the first time in years, she smiled.