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Lunette

The scavenger’s daughter saves out the honey from a broken crock and the copper from insulated wires. She saves out pearled buttons and the flints from lighters, compass needles, the lenses of little round eyeglasses. She keeps them in the cage of her chest.

She gives almost all of it to her father for bartering days, but this time he isn’t waiting to collect the day’s catch. She finds him at the back door, clutching his chest.

“Lunette,” he whispers. “Lunette, I’m so cold, my darling, so–”

She saves out his eyes and teeth, and the rings on his little fingers.

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