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used to be, puddling in grooves that were carved out by many storms over many years. You pick at the dirt embedded in your fingernails as you walk the strangely-familiar halls, other hand trailing along the stained wall. No fridge in the kitchen, but a hole in the roof, there. Parts of an oven litter the floor, raccoons having taken up residence in its husk. You take care not to wake them as you pass. There, the bathroom, and the little blue rubber duck Mark played with every time he took a bath, outliving even him but still lying abandoned amidst the rubble—and you know, for a second, who Mark is, before it slips away from you, leaving nothing but a broken echo. Your fingertips twist around the doorknob but do not grasp it, and you move on;

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2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  

Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College