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Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

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pots, Donald,” I said.

He let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like a dry leaf scraping across concrete, his head bowing until his forehead almost touched his knees. He stayed there for a long minute, his hands clasped behind his neck while the grandfather clock in the hallway struck the quarter hour.

The silence that followed was not the peaceful continue reading …

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