Warmth at the Gas Station
I The car died on a Tuesday in November, on a road that had no name and no streetlights and no cell service. Amy Kowalski had been driving for two hours from the last town that had a name, carrying nothing but a backpack with three changes of clothes, a thermos of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, and a sketchbook she had not opened in six months. The car was a Honda that had belonged to...
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