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Plastic utensils. Your parents love them. They love them so much that they wash them. They wash them so often the plastic grows cloudy and weak. Prongs break off the forks, their limbs amputated and muted. Stabbing food was never…
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“What about the other groups coming here?” I ask. “Were they asked what they wanted in these houses?” She turns and looks at me, like I've suddenly come onto her radar.
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