The Wistful Saga
The state auditor’s pen was scratching against the intake form with a rhythm that matched the low, persistent hum in the walls, a sound I had grown so accustomed to over the last three months that I no longer heard it as noise but as a kind of structural breath. I was standing in the kitchen of my mother’s house in rural Kentucky, watching the man, a lean fellow named Mr. Halloway from the...
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