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Don’t stop, she said as he poured from the watering can the keys to houses she had never visited, drawers she could not unlock, cars reserved for others. Then coins from countries that appeared on none of her itineraries—Ukraine and Indonesia and Iran, not to mention Argentina and Brazil. And hoop earrings she would not be caught dead in, glass beads from a necklace worn by someone else, a silver brooch that made her heart ache. Don’t stop, she said when there was nothing left—and so he filled the can with water to sprinkle over the objects spread like seeds on the dining room table. One by one they sprouted into new lines of argument, and as they grew she raised her hands above her head, crying, Don’t stop.