“Lunch, Justin!” she called from the kitchen. With a practiced flip, she plattered a grilled cheese sandwich, filled a bowl of steaming tomato soup, and balanced her way to his bedroom door. She knocked and entered, looking past hundreds of identical, dirty dishes, oblivious to the rotting, hot-box stench, and puzzled today’s meal onto a corner of his vacant bed. She closed the door behind her, mumbling “That stubborn boy,” then returned to the kitchen and the food she wouldn’t eat.



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