Mr. D. Mise

There is a runaway baby carriage rolling down the hill, a bump, a clack, a final stop against the old oak tree.

Mr. Mise stops to look. He lifts the flannel cloth.

“Hmm,” he mutters and walks away.

Night comes, the carriage remains. Day breaks. Leaves fall.

The headline reads, “Mr. D. Mise is Dead!

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