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warning. Jagged fingernails stored last week's dirt. Cowboy boots added extra inches to his emaciated El Greco body.
As the pause button of Jesse [[strikethrough]] was [[/strikethrough]] is held my brothers and sisters [[strikethrough]] would [[/strikethrough]] ask, 
"Where was I?" We each had our own isolated fear, scrambling, up and down the hall not wanting to be seen by the cowboy. Smelling the tracks of cigarette smoke we followed his movement behind our bedroom doors. The heels of his boots scuffed the carpet making marks in the grain of acrylic thread. He was an old cowboy [[strikethrough]] and he was [[/strikethrough]] looking for a ranch to work and this one came with wall to wall shag.
We meet Jesse one at a time. I came home from high school in the afternoon and he was sleeping in the bunkhouse. The door was locked. I kicked at the bottom panel where loose cigarette smoke moved through the seams of the doorway and mixed with the orange blossoms. I could smell Jesse on the other side. The wood door swung open. Cowboy Jesse was setting up his camp and had missed his appointment with Dr. Freud. WHAT DID HE DO OR SAY?
I knew this day was going to be different. I didn't give Jesse my name. The names of five ranch hands would just confuse him. My mom was getting him a clean shirt from my step fathers closet. When he pulled his dirty shirt off over his head, his dark face became lost under the milky cotton making his head appear gold with light. Healing, in the middle of his chest was a fresh scar. A circle the size of my finger made by a gunshot. Jesse was real cowboy. He had been in a western gunfight.

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