The thrift store stinks of sour laundry and wet ceiling tiles. My brother Grover left it to me. It’s probably what killed him, all the dust and mold. I should mop. I should jettison the crushed lampshades and raveling scarves and action figures missing limbs—a battalion of tiny plastic amputees. But then I’d have to raise prices, and my customers expect rock-bottom. Most are immigrants who are amazed to buy a stained, pilly sweater for seventy-five cents. I tell them this is America, land of miracles.
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