Putting first things first, I untied a box of clothes and rummaged around until I found, not candy, but a sleek, cream-colored radio Henry had given me, a display item from his Western Auto. My old Philco had always sat in my kitchen, close to the stove. Too close. First thing I asked about after the fire. “Melted into a blob,” the young fireman told me as he removed his hat and wiped his sleeve across his face. “Heat in there was intense. Intense, I tell you. And the smoke? Ma’am, you’re lucky you weren’t asleep at the time.” I couldn’t resist plugging in the radio. When I found my favorite station, a familiar voice filled the empty corners of the room as Johnny Cash belted out “Folsom Prison Blues.” Someone else in misery. I nearly cried, but refused to give in to my feelings. When he sang “Lord, I Can’t Do This by Myself,” I still felt miserable, but decided God can work through anybody—preachers or even Johnny Cash. A shopping bag that was leaning against the closet door slipped and fell.
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