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7/10
Enter Michael Scott, status: lost.
Cappuccino with delusions of grandeur.
“Is this the leadership retreat?”
Door slams—rain follows him in.
Five killers stare. Even the jazz goes quiet.

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6/10
At school, the diaspora split between Taiwanese and 大陆人—those like me, “less civilized,” newly arrived.
At night my father counted quarters, chased one laughing, slipped it under my pillow.
“For good luck,” he whispered. “Or good dreams.”
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