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“Long as I’m on this side of the dirt you ain’t alone, boy,” Albert said before shuffling up the stairs. And that simple action, those gentle words, was why he loved his father more than that little boy hated him. It was the blessing of blood.
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That kind of hurt stays hungry.” Griselda stubbed out her second cigarette. She said softly, “That kind of hurt has to eat.”
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“I beg your pardon?” “Beg all you want; you won’t get it.
And, just for the record, Mama would probably say, ‘Shoot that motherfucker four more times,’”
“What if me trying to hold the world together is what keeps me from falling apart?”










































