Dead Snake, Dead End
I. The third notice sat on the kitchen table under a magnet shaped like a beer mug. Dean Hackett stared at it while he ate cold beans from a can with a fork that had lost two tines three years ago at the steel plant. The notice was from a man named Vic. Vic didn't send letters. Vic sent people. But this letter was written in a hand that was almost careful, almost human, which meant Vic was...
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