How to Capture Carbon by Cameron Walker
“Stop, stop!” they both say. Their voices are as hopeful as the words written on our flash cards. I do not stop.
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I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
“Stop, stop!” they both say. Their voices are as hopeful as the words written on our flash cards. I do not stop.
The bear...seemed part of him, a projection, and then it seemed bigger than him too, the universe.
He turned my palm skyward and pressed the key there, closing my fingers over the black plastic fob.
Cul de sac is a French term meaning bottom of the bag—you know that from when you worked as a translator. It also means there’s only one exit, one way out.
The hoodoos still bear witness, still wait. Tiny bore holes line the craggy ridges of soft clay like acne scars.