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... , creased photograph. Wallet-sized.
My father used to pull it out every time he came back from a dive—two photos, side by side in the leather fold. One of the family. One of a man built like a fortress, grinning with the kind of reckless confidence that only people who have cheated death together can share.
How could I forget? Every time I heard the name, it scratched at something behind my memory like a nail on glass.
Boris. My father’s best friend. The man in the second ...
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