The Bin
You put the card back. The bin is full of them, blue ink under every block, and you have never once looked.
The machine makes ice. It is a good machine. By morning the card is under four hundred pounds of other ice.
You go home. You sleep. You are fine.
Sometimes, in June, a stranger holds a cold glass to her forehead, and every voice in the bar stops, and the only sound is the cooler under the bar holding one low note, and you almost remember.
THE END.
- Go back to the chute.
- Lift the lid of the bin, and the false bottom under it. Found in the bin “The shortest way is the one you don't take twice.” this page is not cut yet; the path bends to The Silent Room
the end, for now
The book · Colophon and credits
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