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Yamato never loses him long. He finds him, this time, only about twenty minutes later, in a reverie before the canned fish aisle, mooning over packed salty mackerel boiled in white miso. Shoulders slumped all the way in a Savile Row cut Yamato had said was too much to spend on a suit he’d only wear once a year. Today’s the third time, in eight months. Yamato won’t be baited.
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