The Pale Bonsai
The morning the sky turned the color of bruised plums, the baker on Miller Street burned down, and with it, the last of the white bread that had kept our town’s conscience from rotting, and I stood there in the gray ash of my youth, holding a loaf that was still warm, still soft, still capable of sustaining life, while the firemen shouted in tongues that sounded like the grinding of tectonic...
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