Hoard

Every glass in her cupboards had a small dot of dried milk in the bottom. He rinsed it in the sink, looking for a clean spoon to scrap the inside.

“What’s taking so long,” she yelled from the other room.

He edged through the towers of newspapers and piles of crushed boxes in the already narrow hallway. Then slid in beside her at the dining room table.

“Here,” he said, giving her the glass of cloudy water.

“Probably easiest to burn the whole thing down, right,” she said. “Leave no trace. Who cares if it was my whole life, right?”

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