Sloan and Welsh were conferring on the lawn, standing
where the porch light ceased and shadows ruled. Sloan was an unrepentant throat clearer. She looked forever young, but given the daily
drubbing of tobacco, her lungs left her sounding a rapidly in decline 70. It sounded like a sprinkler on a hay field
trying to blast water past a blockage of some sort in the line, likely a once
inquisitive now mummified rodent.
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