NOTHING GROWS BACK
Danny woke up with mud in his hair and the taste of wet coal dust in his mouth. It was five in the morning. The sky outside his trailer window was the color of a bruise—gray, purple, and a sickly yellow that suggested dawn was coming whether he wanted it to or not. He sat up on the cemetery bench where he had been sitting all night, his back against a headstone that read: GEORGE W. KOWALSKI...
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