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She’s captured her dreams in a Mason jar, boiled and sealed. When Genji holds it up to the lamp she can just make out shapes: distortions, birdlike, beating against the glass.

“I can give you seventy dollars,” says Genji, and the woman across the counter tightens.

“You can’t do eighty,” she says, unable to make it a question.

“Seventy,” says Genji, as gently as she can.

They trade. Genji opens a low cabinet to stack it with the others.

“I’ve got thirty days,” says the woman, “to buy it back?”

“That’s right,” says Genji, but they never do, they never do.

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