An Inventory of What Remained on the Holland Farm
The dust on the windowsill measured three-quarters of an inch. It had been sifted there by a wind that had blown for six days without stopping — the kind of wind that made the sky the color of an old bruise and filled the air with so much grit that the sun appeared only at noon, and even then as a pale disk behind a curtain of soil. No one had opened the window in nineteen days. The latch was...
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