The Quiet Desperation of Route 66
The diner was a chrome-plated relic of a dream that had died somewhere around 1974. It sat on the edge of a dusty stretch of highway in Oklahoma, where the wind carried the scent of scorched asphalt and old grease. Frank sat in the corner booth, his fingers stained with nicotine and engine oil, staring at a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. He was a man of fifty, with a back that...
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