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Weekly Contest #308
It began, as it always did, with the sour-lit hallway, long as sin, echoing like a conch shell vomited from the Gulf. A hospital corridor, old and fogged-up like a bathroom mirror. Walls green as pond scum. Air smelling sharp with bleach and rust. Lights blinking like they were thinking about going out. Coleman Bourque, just eight years old, held on to his mama’s hand. At least he was sure it was his mama’s. Her face never showed right. It was always smudged, like the edge of a cloud. He could feel her hand, though—soft, careful, her pinky t...
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