by Gloria Whelan
The evening before, the phone had rung, a lively sound in the dead house. “Dr. Blohm? I’m afraid I won’t be coming anymore.” A voice full of guilt. Harriet, her other patient, was a middle-aged woman with a principled stand against make-up, gray hair in a braid that hung to her waist, rag-bag clothes, third-world jewelry, and a long string of husbands and lovers; each one with a cause and each one a loser.
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