The Bone Orchard

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Sump Hymn

We drop together—Wayne and I—bound by gravity and a bad idea. The hour swallows us like a throat. Clay ribs rake my shoulders; a beam knocks his breath. We slide into black that smells like drowned apples.

“Cass,” he laughs, wet. “Finally on time.”

“Shut up.”

The floor cants into a bellmouth....

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