The Wistful Show
The iron gauge in your left hand is cold, colder than the iron rail of the train you are sitting on, and the cold is not just a temperature but a presence, a heavy, wet thing that sits in the meat of your palm and refuses to leave. You have had it for three months, since you left the farm in Vermont, and it has grown from a tingling in the fingertips to a solid block of ice that extends up to...
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