I watch Eckert wash blood from the hair of his forearms. He pushes a sudsy sponge down toward his wrist, pressing hard. Pink water runs through his fist. Soap bubbles go floating. He frowns under his neat, white mustache. Pulling the pad of each finger back with his thumb, he rinses out his nail beds, the ridges of callus along his palms. He turns to me.
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