Fiction | December 01, 2003

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Ofelio Campos stood at the edge of the eleventh sloor, dreaming of beds. He thought of showroom floors and king-sized mattresses. He thought of sultanish waterbeds spotted like leopards. He thought of pillows. He thought of freshly washed sheets, crips from the dryer, of a comforter he once slept under in a Las Vegas motel, folding him in like the wings of a bird.

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