Thousand: Six Hundred Fifteen

that’s not the way it is. Losers never win. You’re born that way. A loser.”) and curtsies before the white box. One speckled fist raps twice on the lid. The box pops open. The girl is watching from the stool. She captured the hair. It wasn’t long but was wiry, like a whisker. She slipped it into an envelope she drew from an inner pocket. The droning loser may or may not be watching the opening of the box, is turned that way, head alternately sagging forward or to one side. The old woman reaches into the box but whatever