The Faded Quadrant
The rain hits the tin roof of the shelter like a thousand small hammers. It is a Tuesday. You know this because you count the days. You have always counted the days since the letter arrived. The letter from the bank. The letter with the red seal that meant foreclosure. It meant the house was gone. It meant the debt was a hole in the world that you could fall into. You are a soldier. Or you...
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