and there’s no way, absolutely no way, that Bagger and Arno enter this hornet’s nest and aren’t pulled like pork, and so, by silent accord, they enter anyway, no weapons to speak of but the ferocity of their cries, Bagger’s the fermata of the final hymn echoing through his father’s church, Arno’s the high-pitched yap of apelings as they sling themselves through jungle eaves, élan, boys, élan,
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