The cigarette butt was the first thing that did not belong.
Frank Callahan had called me to the garage on a Thursday, three weeks after the funeral, to show me what remained of his son's project. The Camaro sat in the center of the concrete floor like a patient etherized upon a table, its hood open, its engine exposed, its black box of custom electronics gleaming dully under the single fluorescent tube that flickered overhead. Frank had not touched...
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