# She Was Buried Beneath the Snow. He Was Buried Beneath the Truth.

sixty-eight years old then, a white American man with no fixed address, a bad left knee, and a brown wool coat that had once belonged to a better version of me.

I used to load trucks at a warehouse in St. Paul, live in an apartment with a kitchen window, and know exactly where my keys were.

By that winter, everything I owned fit inside one backpack.

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