“ROSIE SAYS. “English,” I say. He has a copy of a local arts circular rolled up in his fist, like a baton. It’s called The Mountainist. I read it sometimes at the bar, if I’m alone—gardening, music, local politics. I wouldn’t have pegged Rosie as a reader. He tucks it into one of his drawers and hands me a pair of canvas gloves and a litter picker. “To foreigners?” he says. “What?” “Like, illegals?” My Renewal suit is heavy, and it sticks to my skin. I can already feel the chafing. “No. English—...writing and literature.” He crosses his arms, and his chair pops as he reclines. He has satisfied himself. “You married?” he says. “Yes.” “Kids?” “No.” He points to the window. Outside, there is a white school bus in the lot—an old kind. Diesel engine, security windows. There is a trailer with a portable toilet affixed to the back bumper. “See you at 3:00,” he says. The driver halts the bus ten miles outside of town, along Interstate 26. He is protected from us by security glass and a wire cage.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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