From: Zannashirts Or: Moteefe store
he remembered. Then it was in his hand, and he looked at Boston White Sox wash your damn hand shirt it carefully, but it was the same apple. Unchanged. The same size and shape: a perfect sphere. The same nondescript shade, about the same shade as his own tunic. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about that apple. He had tossed it back and forth between his hands a few times, then thrown it again to asher. And again—in the air, for an instant only—it had changed. It had happened four times. Jonas had blinked, looked around, and then tested his eyesight, squinting at the small print on the identification badge attached to his tunic. He read his name quite clearly.
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