“A Gardener’s Glove,” by Matthew Dexter

      I knew there was something familiar about her face, as if she had come from a place I had been, decades earlier, before the world closed in, before ending up a balding child psychologist trapped in an undecorated office barely larger than an oversized coffin, across from JCPenney and the Foot Locker. There was something about her that seemed strange, though I couldn’t place my finger on it. Wilson Elementary referred her to my office after she bit the tip off her gym teacher’s thumb. We needed to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. Click here to read more.

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