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Quillory

The phone won’t ring and the phone won’t ring and Quillory can’t stand missing him anymore, so she swallows a fishing barb with a tiny mirror and syrup of ipecac. It comes back up hooked through his gray silhouette, which has the texture of dupioni silk.

Gagging, Quillory hauls it out hand over hand, slams it in the dryer, shoves in quarters. The tumbler kicks and roars; his shadow shrinks and shrivels. She shivers, leaning on the wall. Her pocket starts to tremble.

She wipes her mouth. “Hello?” she tries.

“It’s me,” says his choppy basement voice.

“Who?” she says, confused.

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