Dirt Under the Fingernails
Tom Miller had stopped counting the months since he was laid off from the trucking company. The number was somewhere around fourteen, maybe fifteen. Time had become a flat thing—each day a repetition of the last, each night a variation on the same theme: wake up, drink coffee, drive past the closed factory, sit in the motel lobby, drive past the closed factory, go home, drink beer, sleep. The...
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