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On the stair leading up into the disinfectant-smelling twilight of a
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rooming house, she saw an old man huddled,
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shaking with grief she couldn't hear.
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Both hands, smoke white, covered his face.
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On the back of the left hand she made out the post horn
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tattooed in old ink now beginning to blur and spread.
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Fascinated, she came into the shadows and ascended creaking steps,
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hesitating on each one.
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When she was three steps from him the hands flew apart and his wrecked
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face and the terror of eyes gloried in burst veins stopped her.
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"Can I help?"
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She was shaking, tired. "My wife's in Fresno," he said.