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All she remembered of that morning were the sounds. The drumming of the raindrops on the steel chimney. The incessant bark of the neighbors' dog. The cry of the baby down the hall. The voice of a news anchor on the television. The whistle of the tea kettle on the stove. Now just to silence the memory of those sounds, she would boil water in that very kettle and leave it whistling until every last drop of liquid inside had evaporated.