The Wistful Atlas
The rent notice was pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a red apple, the paper yellowing at the edges where the glue had dried and cracked. It listed the arrears in a font so small it seemed designed to be missed, a bureaucratic whisper of debt that our father, Arthur, read every morning with the same grave attention he paid to his blood pressure. I was twelve, though the cough...
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