When he first handed me the cleaned-out coffee can with all of my pieces inside I bit down on one like a prospector testing gold. The feel of Scrabble tiles without the letters, the heft of bone, each one a variant shade of beige. My tongue assessed the fine grit of something vaguely tasting of shoe sole.

“Don’t eat it!” Jim said.

“I’m not eating it.” It left the tang of worn leather on my lips, and then I set the square back down.

Read the rest of my new and strange little tale at the Used Furniture Review right here.

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