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66 The USS Goodbye The clock’s second hand swings back and forth: a wrecking ball into the aluminum siding of her ribs. Jesus, she grits, the lord’s name between her teeth, like a piece of rag she can chew on. It’s 10 degrees outside, snow coming down like ripped-up lottery tickets. In the morning, the surgeon will study the X-rays, predict her future, as if she’s on a boat and he can see the waves swelling in the distance. She wishes people were standing on the pier, yelling out her name, before she vanishes into the fog. But this isn’t that kind of departure. There are no string quartets, no champagne bottles busted over the hull. Just a suitcase filled with the unmatched gloves she lost in her lifetime, banging between her knees. ...

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