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   Does he say anything?
   We watch the kid’s father from the front door.
   He’s my father, says the kid.
   Well yeah, but so that means he doesn’t?
   The kid at some point has tied the older man to a chair. And left him in the corner of the store. There wasn’t much to do for him now.
   He’s kinda messed up.
   So is yours, the kid says. You said.
   I can’t make out this kid. He’s deferential to the point of characterlessness. He could be a cardboard cut of some teen pop sensation.
   Yeah, I did, I say. She talks though. Your guy, he’s like you. Not very many words.
   We watch the old man make his slow movements. The kid didn’t really tie him up well, just wrapped a sheet around his body and the chair back, and secured it with a knot. The man rolls his hands and shifts his feet.
   I love him very much, says the boy.
   And who wouldn’t, right? A mottled old man starting to stink, eyes full of catarrh, and sallow skin hanging in folds from his face. Messed up.
   Would you say he’s dead? I ask. Because mine, she’s young and she doesn’t move at all. If you couldn’t hear her, you’d say she’s dead.
   Young? he says.
   Yeah, like twenty or something, I say.
   Then I have to duck.

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