Sipe started walking down the gentle decline towards Bug’s truck, idling in the lane.
No cars drove down the westbound lane, but Sipe started to run for the truck. He didn’t seem the sort of man who ran willingly or well. He looked like a funeral director desperate to catch a departing hearse before the still-open trailer gate led to certain fiasco. Running one of many activities he’d come off alien in performance. Opening Christmas presents. Doing laundry. From behind a podium, introducing a longtime inspiration. Sex. Any kind.
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