Fiction | January 31, 2014
Salvage
Hal Walling
I didn’t see the cop car parked near Scotty’s house. Its interiors were off, there were no lamps around. After picking up I’d driven maybe a hundred feet when suddenly the constable was in my way. He raised both palms in the air, then jogged around the side of my truck and ordered me in a low voice, as if this was a carjacking, to kill the lights.
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