Fiction | June 01, 1983

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When I was thirteen my father got hit by one of those laundry trucks that come around real early in the morning and pick up diapers. Dad was out running before work and I guess it was still pretty dark, so the driver didn’t see him. I heard my Uncle David tell Jummy that he’d been mashed up pretty good and the driver “must have been going at a God-damn quick clip to do something like that.”

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