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Gheorghe

Gheorghe’s been trying to flag a ride for hours and the sun is trembling on the swamp horizon: the dark chases his feet down the dirt of the road. He’s friendless, and the woman he loved is lost to him. His panflute pipes a lonely cockeye’s song.

A cold wind tosses the kerchief bindle over his shoulder, and the few coins in his possession spill onto the ground. He drops to his knees to scrape them up.

Six silver dollars stare at him, all on edge.

Midnight. Gheorghe Zamfir stands at the crossroads, shivering, knowing the devil will be there soon.

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