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Bob McElwain

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2005 Bob McElwain

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Friday Night

He’d never found a pattern to it. And he had no warning now. As fog off a river delta, it quietly enshrouds, lingers, and then drifts on. He was engulfed by a damp gray loneliness, the cries of childhood close to his lips. He was cold, too cold.

There was no fog here, only the Nevada desert. Although mountains blocked his view, he was gazing to the southwest in the direction of Los Angeles. The moon doubled his height in a shadow, blurring the tension in his broad shoulders and short neck.

When he could again taste the crisp, desert air, he took control of his eyes first; he focused on the horizon. The urge was strong to walk to where the bright, brilliant stars were within reach. Instead, he turned back toward the filling station, a sprawling blemish beside the old highway. To the north, light from Las Vegas was a dome of whiteness against the dark sky.

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