Reese meets me in the hallway before school, ready for our twice-a-week individual work. I kneel and gently ask her to take off her backpack and coat. As I speak, she suddenly freezes, tears welling in her eyes.
“Your voice is wrong,” she says, tone rising with distress. Baffled, I keep myself calm and steady, which is our usual way unless we are playing.
“Your voice is telling me you are upset,” she cries, pushing her palms toward me. “Why are you sad?” she yells.
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object of memory 