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  • Lucky Day
  • Jeffrey Skinner

On the drive to work today my car pulled to the left. I stopped at a Chevron and looked at the tires. No problem. I opened the hood. My father was there, curled around the manifold, bit of smoke rising from his oily blue suit. "Dad . . . what the hell?" I said. Without speaking he began laboriously to snake around to another position. When he had stopped moving he looked frozen in the aspect of someone who had fallen several stories to the street. "The car's fine now," he said. "Go. Don't be late for work." He was right: no more pull. Also, not a single pain in my body or mind. Plus, universe not yet contracting. Lucky, lucky day.

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