The syringe sat on the Formica counter like an accusation.
Ray McCullough stared at it for twenty minutes. He had stared at a lot of things in his life — steel beams, welding sparks, the empty space where his daughter's laughter used to be when she went to her mother's house on weekends. But this was different. This was small and clear and plastic and it contained everything he wanted and everything he was afraid of and the line between the two was...
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