The winter in Anvil, Ohio, didn't feel like winter. It felt like the end of something that had been dying for a long time and was just now catching up to itself.
Billy Harlan woke up on a Tuesday in February 2005 with the taste of whiskey in his mouth and forty-three years of regret packed into a six-year-old body like suitcases in an overpacked car trunk. He had been a truck driver. Not a long-haul driver—just local runs from Cincinnati to the warehouses in the suburbs. He had been good at it, or as good as you could be when you were driving a...
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