The ball is a speck in the sky. Up, up it soars, like dust blown against a ceiling of lovely blue. Far below, the right fielder circles and stares, mitt raised to the sky. It seems the ball will never fall.
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Narrative is a hundred percent reader-supported. If you love what you’re reading, please make a one-time or monthly tax-deductible donation. Your gift of $60 or more includes a 1-year Backstage Pass with special features and exclusive previews.
