When she brought it to him, wrapped in paper gray as skin and greased with rain, his finger lay heavy on the printed word. The news filled him with the black of broken street lamps. The word he was following was ash, a story about a fire, pollution.
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We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet