The Dust Keeps No Ledgers
The screen door hangs crooked on a single hinge. The spring broke sometime in the spring of 1932, and no one bothered to fix it because by then the topsoil was already lifting off the fields in brown clouds that turned the sun the color of old brass. The nail that should hold the hinge plate has rusted through, leaving a brown stain that runs down the pine like a tear. Inside, the kitchen table...
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