The Wistful Campus

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2026-08-21 18:38:40 -

The van smelled of diesel and damp wool. Marcus sat in the passenger seat, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. The road to Blackwood Ridge was a slick ribbon of blacktop, winding through the dense pines of the Oregon coast. It was raining. It had been raining for three days. The wipers beat a frantic, monotonous rhythm against the glass. Marcus was a man of few words. He had spent...

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