Frank Morrison was a gravedigger. That was what he did. That was what he had done for twenty-eight years, from the age of twenty-two to the age of fifty, and if you asked him what else he could do, he would have told you he didn't know, because he didn't.
He worked at a cemetery on Chicago's South Side, a small cemetery that belonged to no church and no family and served whatever people in the neighborhood couldn't afford anything fancier than a six-foot hole and a wooden box. It was not a pretty cemetery. The headstones were tilted. The grass was cut once a month if the city remembered. The fence was chain-link and rusted at the bottom. But...
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