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The last morning that Mercedes Diaz rode the D6 began like all the others. She boarded the bus at the corner of P and 22rd Street and took one of the seats just behind the driver. Ernest, who drove most weekdays, was absent, and she could not quite…
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She reached under the tissue and pulled out a third gift.
“It’s like peeling open my heart,” he said, “one layer for each year.”
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A plain oval face, opaque except for a birthmark streaking the right cheek like chicken shit.
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