The Road That Begins Where It Ends
I was at the gas station when Frank Callahan walked in. He looked like a man who had spent forty years standing in a factory and found that the factory had decided he was no longer useful. His hands were stained with grease that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove. His face was a map of every bad decision he had ever made and every good one he had never gotten the chance to make. "Ray," he...
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