When she was sure he was finished, she lifted the bucket.
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There he was, a white head poking from the dirt like a spring crocus.
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His scalp shone pale in the places where she had shaved him newly bald, but it would be pink and red once the sun baked it.
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She could see the earth disturbed around his head, imagined him pressing forehead and cheeks against the ground for leverage, struggling against the knots.
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Dirt caked in one ear.
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Dot was pleased to see that he had struggled, but more that she had dug deeply enough, and had made the knots well.
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It had been easier than she had expected to dig so deep, the soil loose and uncomplicated; the backhoe had stripped everything out, even the deepest roots.
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For God’s sake, Dorothy. Stanley said. For God’s sake.
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She set the bowl down on the earth by his head and his eyes rolled toward it like those of a horse in full panic. What is that, Dot? What is it?
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She dipped the brush into the bowl. The substance was very sticky and when she removed the brush it trailed a rope.
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I'm just thinking back to that whisk. It's going to be tough to hand wash. 
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