The Faded Portrait
The receipt is yellowed, the ink faded to a brown that matches the peeling paint of the border checkpoint’s office. You hold it in your left hand, the one wrapped in a rag that has long since lost its white, and you read the line item: *One (1) Coat, Wool, Grey. Condition: Poor. Value: Negligible.* You do not sign it. You do not need to. The officer, a boy of perhaps twenty-two with a jaw that...
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