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14 TOM BLACK pushed me into my locker right after I found out my brother had killed himself. He didn’t know yet. A few years later, a winter dusk in the field behind our high school: he, too, pushed a cold trigger. The next night I walked through snow to where the northern lights fell over the dead field. The sky crackled in blue ash above the police ribbon strung around some stakes. His sprawled imprint had melted a little. It looked like his life had fallen asleep. On the white plate my flashlight made on the snowfield, the blood flickered. I turned my light off and cried. ...

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