Kneebone. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. He handed Ruth a letter. “Nothing. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. She heard the television blaring away.
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