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24 Like Skin We like to think there are two kinds: those who leave and those left behind. There, men grind a life out of dirt, haul it up. They either fold bank notes into envelopes and send them home, or they don’t. Here, women, all boot buttons and business, write letters and wait with children playing on the porch, or without. 25 But anyone can buy a ticket, lean into the steamer’s rail, breathe in wood smoke and wait. Anyone can hide a pen in a pocket, and never lift it to write, unwilling to beg even paper. Anyone can heft a cast iron skillet, melt butter, crack eggs. And anyone can knead dough, fold it onto itself until like skin, it barely yields to the touch. ...

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