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48 Queen of the Shortcuts Talking with her was like entering a dimly lit room in August after building sand castles in midday sun: salt in my swim trunks, fried lotion on my lip, eyes adjusting to her acute darkness. Ah, to be ten years old again, coming upstairs, finding mother donkey-eyed, whispering, there are four ways to find god, her smile like a pile of leaves burning from within, but here is a shortcut, lifting her sleeve: a series of bright pink nicks in her forearm. ...

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