Fiction | March 01, 1992

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“Name the quad cities,” said Tillman.

It was the middle of the morning and we’d just crossed the Mississippi and entered Iowa. I tried to remember the highway signs we’d passed. “Moline,” I said. “East Moline.” I was stuck. “North Moline and South Moline?”

“I’m sorry,” said Tillman. “You do not win the walnut dinette set. The correct answer is: Moline, Rock Island, Bettendorft, and Davenport.”

“Rock Island sounds pretty.”

“It’s the armpit of the Mississippi. How about a sandwich?”

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