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24 Clutch Caught in a Chrysler’s steering-box gear, Buddy Bullinger’s right index finger sheared off at the knuckle. He went on to drive a bread truck thirty-five years. Nights he skipped down from his cab with a loaf gripped in talons, sausage stump riding high on the hump. At table, a stack of sliced white before him on a plate, butter knife pressed to palm, he murmured grace. The truncated digit, mole-blind, deaf and dumb among its articulate brothers, wriggled like a night crawler, made you, if you were a kid, wring your hands, then stop when you caught yourself doing it. ...

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