He stares at her a moment through the rain, his straw-colored hair plastered flat to his head, then shrugs. “If there’s stuff you want, you best get busy.” He bends down and reaches into the carton of cleaning supplies, coming up with a box of plastic trash bags. He tosses the box to her without aiming. “If this stuff ain’t off the sidewalk in the next hour, it’s going in the dumpster.” Christy-Lynn watches mutely as the landlord’s son disappears back into the apartment. And then finally, because there’s nothing else to do, she stoops to pick up the box of trash bags, rips one from the roll,
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