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21 Answering machine For some the telling is easy. The first confesses he’s copied my number from the white pages, then claims the kill was not his first; his record is longer than the tape spooling the gears of this little box. He’s already booked, sentenced to death, but wants a second hearing. It’s common practice in the pen, a boasting of sums. The machine spits out this stenography. One leaves false leads: an earring, an accusation. The next, an anonymous tip: the tanker car, the foolishness of a girl to follow. My mother asks if they’re calling me too, to ring her back. The last cracks a joke about crossing the road. I recognize this voice—it will tremble and plead forgiveness. ...

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