Trees are bare in the Midwest. November is upon us. The old man rakes leaves into piles. All brown. All dead. Wet from morning dew.

Kids bundled up as they walk to the bus stop. Wool hats, puffy coats, jackets with football team’s names on them; black and gold, blue and silver, and one that just says Bears.

A fight breaks out between two of the waiting youths. They wrestle to the ground. Grass stains on jeans. A bloody nose. It’s black verses white. The bus comes. They get on. The white kid cries. The black child mouths off. The bus drives down the road past the old man raking leaves.

A cold wind blows.

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