Olson’s eyes moved jerkily in their sockets, as if long rusted and in need of oil. His mouth fell open with a nearly audible clunk. “That’s it,” Garraty whispered eagerly. “Talk. Talk to me, Olson. Tell me. Tell me.” “Ah,” Olson said. “Ah. Ah.” Garraty moved even closer. He put a hand on Olson’s shoulder and leaned into an evil nimbus of sweat, halitosis, and urine. “Please,” Garraty said. “Try hard.” “Ga. Go. God. God’s garden—” “God’s garden,” Garraty repeated doubtfully. “What about God’s garden, Olson?” “It’s full. Of. Weeds,” Olson said sadly. His head bounced against his chest. “I.”
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