Fake Money
The truck had been making that noise for two weeks. Tom could hear it every time he drove past the exit for Youngstown, a metallic grinding that sounded like someone shaking a can of screws. He ignored it. Ignored a lot of things. The cross was made from a wooden crate someone had nailed together and set in the ground by the side of Route 422. It was not a particularly good cross. The vertical...
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