What Frank Did
I. Frank McCullough woke at six in the morning. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoked one cigarette. The cigarette was the kind he bought at the convenience store on Main Street, the cheapest brand they had, the one that made his throat scratch. He smoked it sitting on the edge of the bed, the way he had smoked cigarettes for thirty years, in the same chair, in the same room, in the same...
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