The Golden Suspect
The road is a vein of red clay, pulsing under the tires of your sedan. You are driving. This is the fact. You are the one behind the wheel. You have been driving for three hours. The sun is a white eye, unblinking. It presses against the windshield. It presses against your skin. You feel the heat. You feel the ache in your left knee. That joint. It is a traitor. It clicks when you turn. It...
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