Monday morning. Kids and crossing guards contend with eight o’clock, a steady stream down Fort past Jim’s Cafe and Sacred Heart. At Go‑Fer, one lean dude in faded jeans and pointed boots inflates a tire and steps inside to fill his mug with Coke and ice, picks up a tin of snuff to keep the buzz on later when the sugar high wears off. At home, his little sister’s sick again. She caught the Monday misery from Dad, who had it Sunday. Too much bourbon on his brain. His hands were heavy, his mute face sad. She’ll spend the morning curled up with a kitten and wash and iron clothes all afternoon.
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