Fresh Cut
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42 the minnesota review Stephen Graham Jones Fresh Cut Because Martin was mowing the back yard when the two men pretending to be magazine salesmen knocked on the front door, he didn't hear his wife screaming his name from the kitchen floor he'd sanded with her four years ago, from the couch liked more than him, that they were still paying for, from the hall with the wallpaper they always joked about, that had her fingernail embedded in it now, and instead of turning the lawnmower off when he was done and going inside to find her as the two men had left her, subscription cards trailed down onto her, he decided to make one more pass around the edge, by the fence, this time letting the outside wheel ride in the dog's path, to get the grass there even with the rest, even if the ground was lower, meaning that by the time he let the safety handle go and breathed in the freshcut silence and went inside, the men were gone, into the five o'clock news, to a prearranged shootout in a car lot on the other side of the loop, but for Martin that was six hours too late already. By then he'd walked out into the backyard again, started his lawnmower, and mowed half the city down. ...