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He’s exhausted, dripping sweat. They both must be.

“Listen to me, Liza,” he says with a slow, desperate urgency. “I can’t do it. It’s Sysiphan, it’s impossible, there’s no way for me to carry enough.”

“Then,” she grates, “fucking do something about it.”

He groans. “How am I supposed to plug it with a straw, anyway? Who does that?”

“It’s all we’ve got,” she says. “We have to. We have to fill the basin.”

“But there’s a hole in the bucket,” he says, “my dear Liza.”

“Then fix it, dear Henry.” There’s no relief in her voice. “Dear Henry. Fix it.”

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