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Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-12_Miles_48_Stops-by_Robert_Steven_Williams.docx

Davida dropped the can of organic soup she was scanning. “Sorry,” she said to the yoga lady. “Do you want me to get another?” ❊❊❊ Reverend Winston knocked on the door of Granny Jack’s apartment shortly after Davida left for work. He was disconnecting the headphones to his iPod when Granny Jack answered. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but another church window got broken last night. I had to wait for the glass company.” “It’s all right, reverend, she’s not here.” “But I thought —” “Come on in, have some pie.” Granny Jack reeled him into the kitchen and sat him down before he could object. A fresh cup of coffee followed a slice of pecan pie with a dollop of Reddi-Wip. Eight years ago, after Davida’s mother was killed by a stray bullet in front of their house, Granny Jack had turned to Reverend Winston. He was a beacon of light in a neighborhood that had become a war zone. The reverend had grown up three hours north in Nelsonville, a town much like Riverside was now, with only a handful of black families. His father, an economics professor at nearby Branchburg College, was the first African


Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-12_Miles_48_Stops-by_Robert_Steven_Williams.docx
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