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When I left my hometown, I took a jar of dirt with me. It wasn’t large. Just a little glass container with rubber around the lid and enough soil to sink two, maybe three fingers into before hitting the bottom. I wasn’t superstitious and I wasn’t going to do it at all until I went to Meg’s house for dinner the night before my train left. Like always, I was dead sober and she was on her third glass of Merlot. Her lipstick—a light mauve only a shade or two off from her foundation—left a
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