by James Stewart III
Taking a pale blue laundry basket from the closet, Jim has the boys follow him outside. He isn’t sure how he hadn’t thought about this before.
They walk out of the building and turn left past the dead-end sign and into the cornfield. Jim doesn’t know shit about corn. Chicagoland doesn’t have all that much in common with the rest of the Midwest outside of an amorphous politeness, which manifests itself in looking people in the eye when walking down the street and exchanging a “hey,” or a familiar head nod.
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