Fiction | July 01, 2011
The City of the Dead
Jennifer duBois
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The first time I went to visit Dr. Hill at Park View, I brought him a bouquet of flowers. It would be six weeks before the headstone would be in, and the grave was gutted-looking still, like new gardening. It all looked a little vulgar and exposed, and I didn’t like to look at it straight—though it was true I’d seen Dr. Hill much more exposed than this. “Don’t get used to this,” I said, laying the flowers at his grave. Dr. Hill didn’t respond, but then he’d never been talkative when I knew him in this life, either.
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