The Thing from the Pawnshop
The alarm went off at 5:45. Karen hit it with the back of her hand without opening her eyes. The apartment was cold—the heating had been acting up for a week and the landlord had said he would fix it "this week" for three weeks running. She lay there for a moment listening to the traffic on the highway, the distant siren, the sound of her son breathing in the next room. Then she got up. The...
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