The Wistful Mountain
The first thing the doctor said was that the bread was wrong. He did not say it as an accusation. He said it with the flat, clinical detachment of a man describing a fracture in a femur or a leak in a valve. He held up the slice. It was a dark, dense rye. It wept a black moisture that looked less like juice and more like blood. Margaret sat in the high-backed chair in his office. The room...
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