She stroked the cards with her fingers; she tapped them like her ritual timpani drums. The light from the window barely penetrated the interior. I couldn’t see the cards. But she laid them out. And she played me.
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It occurred to me at this point this could be the way all prayers sounded to God, mindless, ineffectual buzzing. Jehovah stayed on course regardless. He pointed. He pointed at Adam. At Noah. At Abraham. At Solomon. None of the above. The fly...
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