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His blue lips no longer kissed. Bloodshot eyes stared lifeless at the crypt’s floor. His lover, a girl too young to be married, buried her face in his neck.
The world found Walter T. Woodrow reclining in a camp chair at an RV park in a dusty corner of the US, drifting off to sleep while cottonwoods rustled in a dry breeze. He felt rather than saw the presence of someone hovering over him, and when he opened his eyes two things happened simultaneously. […]
The garage had more inventory than an auto parts store. The husks of two failed restorations hunkered down over oil-stained concrete.