Toto and Dida. [Jobi, Toto! That had been the call that wound through his childhood. But he likes this version. He likes her. Tommy leans over the back of his chair with a stretch, the hem of the too-small shirt riding up before he winces at the pressure against his back and laughs, tilting to the side, catching himself on the edge of the bed.] It's a good name, [he repeats.] A pretty name.
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Fits you.