Mr. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. But ship that girl east as soon as you can. Cathy chimed.
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