The Last Translation
Iron Creek, Pennsylvania, 1987 The diary sat on Frank's workbench between a socket wrench and a can of lukewarm beer. He had been meaning to move it for three days but had not gotten around to it. It was not important enough to move and not unimportant enough to throw away. That was the problem with things like that. They existed in a space between important and unimportant that was very easy...
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