by Emily Blewitt
The small of her back throbs, so Ceri puts a hand to it and presses. So many knots, they’re like pebbles. Smooth and round and hard. The muscle warms, but nothing eases. She sighs, leans over the pram. Makes her eyes smile, her mouth a chorister’s O of hope.
‘Manon, would you like to go for a walk?’
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