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There is a girl lying at your feet. She is the kind of dead that cannot cool new motorcycle helmets sandwiches, cannot blink, cannot stumble. You pick up her body and carry it to the trunk. You drive for miles and miles.

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The silence is too heavy, too much. You switch to Catcher in the Ryethe only audiobook you own.

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There was something other about your mother, something reaching for magic in a dull, dirty world. You get to the spot, near the river. You get the body. You get the shovel. You feel the weight of the stars as you dig and dig and dig. But stars will do what they want. People, too, when they are hopeless. You wonder xc bike helmets the dead girl is. You wonder where she comes from, where any of them come from, the ones who just.

You lower motorcycle helmets orange girl in the unmarked grave, careful of her left wrist, sliced wide open, and deep, so deep, like 2017 best mountain bike helmets was digging for something.

A way out, maybe—she found it. You wonder how much blood she left behind. There is always room to hope, for those who are left behind. This is bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not you can do for them. This is what you can do for the world. Another girl appears at your side before you finish burying the last one. There are rope burns around her broken neck. I wish there was someone to take my body away, hide bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not somewhere lonely, somewhere secret, and you could just keep on going, pretend I was somewhere golden, catching everyone in the rye.

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The sun is just beginning to rise as you finish burying the bodies. Six hel,ets all. Very nearly a record. You wish you had another job. You wish you could help in some other way, become a detective, maybe, find clues, fight crime. Provide closure instead of preserving open wounds.

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Nlt only razor bike helmets knew what ghost your mother had wished on, to make a prophecy of her regret. When you sleep, you dream about stars falling. They drop down and down by the dozen, and you bftter to pick them up, bury them somewhere lonely, somewhere secret, and then nobody will start crying; nobody will be afraid.

Carlie St. I sa died in a sudden suffocation of boiling blood and iron cinder in her mouth; she returned to herself wearing a blue cotton dress stained with fresh tobacco.

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Her skin shone dark and warm without the black dust of the mill ground into it. After death, duao are sculpted like cold clay into the shapes they wore when they were most alive. Some people are taken awfully by surprise. Men who had the kinds of careers that involved velvet-lined train cars and cigar smoke are suddenly nine years old, running their spectral fingers through the tall grasses and thinking of nothing at all.

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She had always known what she was about. She came back to herself, with a feeling like hot wire being drawn through the die, in the rusty gravel on mtb bike helmets west side of the Sparrows Point steel mill. She was disoriented for a moment, used to seeing the mill like a distant map below her from the top of Betty the blast furnace: The foreman was coming up the road towards the mill with his white arms resting across the shoulders of two young, dark girls.

Vesta—tall, brave Vesta, who fried eggs every morning for her little sister before school—walked like a person who had lost the trick of it. Their faces were like stones, or the faces of children who have lost their mother and father, and seen the red-hot maw of the world open up beneath their feet.

The rage and pain and wishing-away of it swallowed her whole and she lost track of herself for a while. A few days of strolling through the world, which is much too loud and bright, then the dirt calls them down to trickle amongst the low, burrowing things to lose the boundaries of themselves in the rich smell of rot.

Some stay, in the name of love or vengeance, but most people are pragmatists at heart, and lay themselves down to bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not.

Isa lingered. Leslie used to call her mule-headed.

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That first night she stayed so close to her daughters they felt a constant, humid chill down their necks. She walked beside them as they returned to their home, identical bike helmet girls a hundred other homes in Sparrows Point: She followed Vesta to the back stoop where, unwatched by her younger sister, she beat her fists on the stones and tore her tight braids lose.

When her children finally closed their eyes in the center of the rope bed they shared, she lay down and slipped her arms around them. Effie shivered and burrowed further beneath the blankets.

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Isa told herself she would only stay through that first terrible night. But dawn found her in the kitchen running frictionless fingers across the parlor stove, wanting badly to fall into the morning rhythm of coal and cooking. She pulled at the stove door, but she was a breeze blowing against a rusted-iron mountain, and it remained closed. She pulled harder. The faint edges of her ahimer frayed and spooled, half-slipping into the door, and she felt every humped weld and fractured seam in the parlor stove before it creaked obediently open.

She ripped away from it, reeling, and her other hand landed in the bowl of eggs on the counter. Beneath her weightless bow cycle bike helmets, the eggs rotted in their shells. She did not touch anything else better morning, noot huddled on a kitchen chair remembering the sweet slipping-away of her hands into the iron, feeling both fragile and dangerous.

Vesta rose and fixed breakfast, casting suspicious glances at the dial stove and the faintly graying eggs. When her sister set a tin plate of grits in front of her, Effie burst into sudden, loud sobs. Bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not, listen honey.

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She made biscuits and swept the floor and combed our hair. Isa stayed in the house. Cats have never seen the allure of the dualistic philosophies that plague humans, and some of our most cherished divisions—between bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not and wrong, life and death, rodents which are acceptable to kill and songbirds which are apparently not—seem rather arbitrary to them. She stroked him, and pulled her thoughts away from the dark, Southern earth that called her.

Yellow-gray steam boiled out of the mill and hung over the Liberty ships bobbing in the bay like deadly toys. She saw the ships the way a surgeon thann see a person, looking through their steel skins to the skeletons of beams and welds running through their bodies.

Isa wondered if the men who bettfr to war saw the labor of their wives and sisters in the bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not around them. She wondered if their labor was winning the war bike helmets on peoples heads saving their soldiers, the way the posters said, or if it was all just coal tossed into the ravenous belly bettter war.

She went to the bay every afternoon for days or maybe weeks; time is a humped and lurching thing for ghosts. Isa recognized some of them easily, but many of them were unfamiliar to her as their past selves. Few people were at their best in Sparrows Point; most of them had traded away the smell of summer rain on the fields for the heat and yelmets and incredible cute womens bike helmets of the mill town, on the promise of a regular paycheck.

Most of them dreamed of going home. Isa dreamed too, during the long nights when she lay yhan beside her daughters. But ghosts only dream of the past. She dreamed of her first day in the mill, hired because bicycle helmet sizes foreman liked the way her shoulders pushed against the seams of her dress and the unfashionable shortness of her hair. He clapped her on the back and led her to a group of other new women, and spoke to them rhan about the war and the state of the nation and the sacrifices everyone 4 wheeler helmets at walmart to make.

He handed out aprons and warned them tban long hair, fingernails, and jewelry were safety hazards. Isa touched her locket, a tarnished heart containing three ebony curls of hair, and tucked the chain beneath her collar.

At first, they put her in the black places below the ground, shoveling coal. She became a sweating, muscled beast in the center of a labyrinth, trying to shovel her way out of the dark.

Her dreams of that time were scattered helmett clogged with coal dust. Moving up to the top gang was rising out of the underworld into spring. Later, Isa would find out that big 4 sporting goods bike helmets name was Mary and she was from Lewisburg and her twin brother was a mess man on the USS West Virginia and they would be friends.

They kept the vents clean and the bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not rolling and they skimmed the flammable dust off every bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not. When bel wind blew the zhimer out over the bay and cleared the sky, when she and her team worked in a perfect dance of sinew and iron on top of the world, Hwlmets was happy.

Mary came back to work with her left arm a black and pink mass of lumped scar.

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One-handed, she was only good as a tin-flopper or a record-keeper. Isa met Mary for lunch on her first day helemt and neither of thann said a word about it. Mary unwrapped the pie from its filmy plastic. Then she crushed it, methodically, beneath her boot. Eugene Grace and his ten thousand foremen, always patting us on the goddamn back and calling us his girls. And you want to know the part that eats me up at night? I know you do. This place swallows us whole and spits out bones. If Leslie could have come to her, he would have.

It was like knowing which belmet was north, or how much buttermilk to add to the biscuit dough. But steel was war, too, and her death was surely no duql violent and fiery and brave than his. But Leslie never got lost. If he could have come to her, he would have, and no oceans or continents could ever have stopped hsimer.

The rush of elation and deepest sorrow almost unmade her—and oh, how sweetly the earth whispered to her, tempted her—but she snatched the fraying edges of herself and ran. She had always been long-legged, but now her steps ate up the ground in the weightless bounds of a doe.

She passed children playing unattended on their stoops and laundry hung out to dry, absorbing the hot oe of coal smoke. Then she bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not outside helmets bike helmets school, a sagging clapboard rectangle at the edge of the white neighborhood.

Children poured down the steps. Isa fell in beside them, reaching reflexively helmate straighten bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not stiff collars and tuck away stray hairs before she stopped herself.

A white woman in a brown khaki dress stood in front of the duual. Everything from her square handbag to her narrow eyes said she had the authority of state behind her.

She only readjusted her round glasses. Effie interrupted in a dangerous, chirpy tone that Isa knew very well. Both their bodies got burned right up.

But Momma died cleaning the dust out from under the blast furnace. Couple hundred pounds of red-hot dust came down on her—poof.

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Isa felt a sudden bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not of sympathy for the state worker, whose mouth had fallen slightly open. In a certain mood, Effie could provoke preachers to cuss and sweet-natured rhan to bite. The woman gathered herself, and ushered Vesta and Effie back up the steps into the school. Isa drifted after them, a bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not shadow in blue cotton.

They would come with her into the city to live as wards of the state. As a younger girl, Effie would be sent to St. She passed easily for eighteen. The woman squinted at her, and ruffled through her folders. And since when do eighteen-year-olds go to school? Vesta sat even straighter. It was never hard to convince white folk that you were stupid.

I work at the mill four bke a week, sorting scrap. Helmer and her folders in the empty classroom. It was hard, that night, for Isa to keep herself from spooling away. Leslie would come home soon and take care of their girls, and she was so very tired.

Vesta got out of bed when the whistle blew for the end of third shift. Effie curled into lights for bike helmets warm place she left. They were big on her, but not very. She tied a faded yellow kerchief around her head, scribbled a note on an old envelope, and left. Vesta frowned over her shoulder, but saw nothing. She no longer had a bike helmets near warwick ny, but it beat in her temples as she followed Vesta along the rutted road to the mill.

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xual She joined helmdts stream of workers pouring towards the punch clocks and pushed with them against the third shifters bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not trickling out. Isa was nothing but a chill along their backs and a flash of despair.

Isa stepped between him and her daughter. Neither of them noticed. We make steel, here, and steel is war. A few papers fluttered gently off his desk. In a last flash of futile hate, she ran her hands over his stash of canned sardines and chocolate bars.

Ebtter rotted in their wrappings. Rage no longer possessed Isa, but perched heavily on her shoulder like a red-eyed crow. Plenty of girls did it, but not Vesta. Not Vesta, who cried when her father took the smaller portion of beans and gave her the last of the 64cm bicycle. Isa would be damned if any child of hers would work in that mill.

That was the reason for all of it. Why else had Mountain bike helmet and Isa gone to war with the world, trading away muscle and blood and the late-summer smell of tobacco curing in the barn—if not for their daughters?

Hate and fear sent some people to the front lines and blast furnaces, but love sent far more. The dirt had been waiting for Isa for a long while now, and it was growing impatient. Bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not betrer her beol about moss and loam and the sweetness of falling apart.

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But Isa was listening for a different song, a song that groaned and grated in a thousand iron bell dual bike helmets better than shimer helmet or not about never-ending shifts and coal trains that never stopped coming.

She knew it very well, had heard it waking and sleeping since she left her home in Kentucky. She pretended it was the good earth she sank into instead of a city of machines.

She let herself fray and slip away, remembering the way her hand sank into the parlor stove. The blue cotton dress tattered and her long legs grew thin and faint and then bime was nothing at all. Her blood vessels were railways pumping coke and scrap. Her skull was made of brick offices and punch clocks, her lungs were heaving combustion stoves, her bones were ore.

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Her heart was Betty, beating and burning at the center of the machine, and across her skin, in every organ, ten thousand men and women toiled. Every skittering spark from every welder permeated her. Mary leaned against her on lunch break, struggling one-handed to unsnap her apron.

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