The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. The silence grew unbearable, so she asked, \"What is your surname, John?\" \"My surname? You mean my last name?\" \"Yes. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. The inside was empty except for an infant, which from a distance looked utterly normal. Come down, I say, instantly, or I'll make you.
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