Time moves slowly in the afternoons, ever more slowly as the hour of five approaches. Its matter-of-fact style lends it a startling and chilling plausibility. On an ordinary night, Jonesy knew, that yard would have been full of rumbling diesel semis, Kenworths and Macks and Jimmy-Petes with their green and amber cab-lights glimmering. He got to his feet and then stood there, gasping and coughing.
” Silence. a wasted life. Beaver smiles. They were friends to the end, always had been.
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