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It was the most dangerous game of the year. Storm clouds, distant lightning, a construction zone and surrounded by grandmotherly homes. Why they chose this lot to play in you’ll never know. As the storm grew, the scents from the neighborhood settled in: plum pies, petrichor, cracked Mr. Sketch black markers, sidewalk chalk, grilled blood sausage, bent iron bar, lilac bush, cherry kirsch glazed apple. You were at bat, distracted by the slip of rain when the ball struck and rang.
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