The Coal at the End of the Lake
The truck died on a Tuesday in November, which was significant only because Tuesday was the day Mike had planned to get drunk, and now that the truck was dead, he did not have the money for whiskey or the energy to walk to the nearest bar, which was twelve miles down a road that was more pothole than pavement. He sat in the cab of the truck and watched the lake through a windshield that was...
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