The Last Cafe
The Last Cafe Frank Doyle was sitting on a couch in a hostel on Khan el-Khalili street and staring at a crack in the wall. The couch had seen better decades. The crack in the wall had seen better centuries. Frank had been staring at it for twenty minutes and had not moved. He was forty-two years old. He had driven a semi-truck for eighteen years. He knew every rest stop from I-90 to I-80. He...
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