It must have been evening by the time the HomeMarket sign came into view. He passed a telephone pole where, in the coppering filament dusk, a splash of violet snowdrops fanned out from under the base as if tossed from a passing car, remnants from years of memorial bouquets placed to mark where Rachel Miotti was last seen alive, now gone to seed and wildflowered. He approached the back door, where he sat down on the milk crates and held his head in his hands. It wasn’t his shift, but having nowhere to go, he went toward order, consistency, discipline—but mostly toward these people, these little
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