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My dreams are so vivid I see tiny details.

Last night I could see the style of plug on an FBI agent's computer, a modem sitting dangerously close to a fish tank, and the sweat stain on the rim of a cowboy hat hanging, on a peg on the wall, near the back door.

I could hear the creak of a basement door, the thud of someone falling down the basement stairs, and country music muddling the whine of a drunk woman, at the bottom of those stairs, crying for help.

I could smell the chicken frying in the kitchen, a threat of rain on a cool breeze, and horses grazing in a field of fresh cut hay.

Most of all, I could feel the sadness of a young woman seeing a lost love in the arms of another. I could feel the jealousy bubbling up inside her like the potatoes boiling in the pot next to the frying chicken. I could feel the anger bottled deep within her gut. I could feel the satisfaction of that anger being released, into the dark vastness of that basement, as she slammed the door.

Still, I believed her as she turned off the burners on the stove, feigned a smile, and said to the FBI agent, "No officer, I haven't seen my cousin since she started dating my husband."

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