
Lucia was keeping us. “Stay on this side of the road,” a nice man on her bus to Ojota had told her, “don’t use the pedestrian bridge.” She was half-way to Mile 12 when I called her, frantically demanding her whereabouts. Rendezvous was Berger. The nice man had misled her. A toppled trailer or some […]
from Brittle Paper http://ift.tt/2jMcN9a
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