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  • The highway down below us looked like an architects model world.
    Toy cars run along a toy 295.
    Tiny golden arches are cheek to jowl with a cluster of tall white canister containers holding milk, or deadly chemicals; I don’t see a sign to indicate.

    Later, out walking, I found out, it is milk.
    Later again, I found a brick walkway tufted with grass that receded into infinity.
    Later, the sun set where the old part of the buildings caught the fading light and I missed the elevator while taking pictures.

    A windsock hung limp in the hazy afternoon on the helicopter pad out side the window.
    The mountains were lost in haze.

    My mother rustled through newspapers.
    I clicked through stories and shared the computer with my Father.
    He wrote on a yellow legal pad, long cursive strokes, a story about one of his roommates, here at the hospital.
    His next roommate turns out to be a neighbor from Gotts Island.
    There is another story!

    "When trees are stressed for water they pump up more sugar and that attracts infestations of bugs."
    My Mother read me this fact, from behind her paper, and it seemed to mean more than the words themselves.

    In the lazy afternoon, I knew fear.
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