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68 THE฀TIN฀HOUSE Some฀days฀the฀mystery฀is฀familiar,฀ every฀shade฀pulled฀down,฀ not฀sun-wrapped฀or฀fire-thrown,฀that tin฀house฀I฀walked฀by,฀for฀instance, running฀as฀a฀kid฀runs,฀taking฀a฀stick฀ to฀its฀corrugated,฀sea-sick฀surface, the฀blip฀blip฀blip,฀thinking฀so฀little of฀the฀old฀man฀inside฀who peed฀in฀a฀can฀and฀threw฀it฀out฀back. My฀brother฀and฀I,฀that฀bit฀ of฀cruelty.฀฀Do฀it฀over.฀฀Slow฀this฀down.฀฀ It฀wasn’t฀mystery but฀childhood฀which฀never฀blinks even฀if฀the฀sun’s฀too฀hot,฀even฀now when฀I฀think฀of฀him฀hearing฀us, two฀brats฀laughing,฀about฀to฀pick฀up those฀ancient฀weapons,฀broken฀off branches฀thick฀enough to฀run฀the฀length฀of฀that฀house฀ straight฀up฀from฀the฀street, his฀hearing฀us฀say฀is฀he฀in฀there?฀ if฀we฀ever฀thought฀to฀say฀that.฀฀He฀stood quiet,฀not฀moving,฀a฀gradual thickening,฀only฀a฀shape฀in฀a฀window฀cut฀ out฀of฀tin฀or฀a฀darkness฀ at฀the฀glassed-in฀door.฀฀He฀was฀waiting,฀ I฀think฀now,฀for฀it฀to฀be฀over,฀this฀ small฀injustice.฀฀Or฀he฀was฀waiting฀for฀us to฀grow฀up,฀for฀the฀moment฀my฀brother would฀turn฀to฀me—I฀feel really฀bad฀about฀that—both฀of฀us฀ finally฀walking฀there,฀not฀a฀thing฀ in฀our฀hands,฀nothing฀to฀him,฀ less฀than฀nothing. ...

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