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New-66PictureThe house was small by any standard. Just four rooms, neither of which was a bathroom. Inside, were two children, a boy of five and a tiny girl—a toddler—who was just getting the hang of walking and talking. A small kerosene heater sat in the center of what the family called the front room. Its tank was empty and the flame had long ago burned out. Icicles dangled from the decaying front porch overhang. The dirt yard, what I could see of it, was a resting spot for junk cars, non-working appliances, tattered furniture, old tires, and a pitiful and old mixed breed dog chained to an engine block. I knew the place almost as well as I know the back of my hand, because this was at least the umpteenth time I’d been there, for various reasons. She stabbed me. He hit me. They beat the kids. Shoplifting. Cocaine. Shots fired. Stolen property. Armed robbery. Prostitution. Yes, I knew it well. At The Graveyard Shift