Pancakes Cure Cancer
“What are you doing to that poor cat?” I parked my doctor’s bag next to Nida’s briefcase. Curled at the table, my wife tucked old Bella’s forepaw into her fragrant teacup. “Give me a kiss, Aloysius. I’m bathing her infected claw with chamomile tea.” “Why don’t you take her to the vet?” I pecked Nida’s bony nose. “She’d waddle away if she didn’t like this.” “Couldn’t get far.” Our two crammed rooms abut an intake to the Queensboro Bridge. Lead-lined curtains and roaring air conditioners hide the traffic, but our living room unit drips into a bowl: tick,...
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