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“Where… get me?” “Your chest, Terry. He got you in the heart, or just above it. You need to make a dying declaration, okay? You need to tell me you killed Frank Peterson. This is your chance to clear your conscience.” Terry smiled, and a thin trickle of blood spilled from either side of his mouth. “But I didn’t,” he said. His voice was low, little more than a whisper, but perfectly audible. “I didn’t, so tell me, Ralph… how are you going to clear yours?”
While he waited for his own out-of-date computer to boot up, he decided to try the database he was married to. Jeannie answered on the first ring,
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When it comes to taking care of old people, the government should help regular guys like Claude, but does it? Bullshit it does.” Says the man who probably voted for Donald Trump, Ralph thought.
had been embellished or entirely covered with spraypaint tags. “He’ll know we’re coming,” Holly said. “I know. We should have brought one of those flashes.” She reached into one of her voluminous side pockets—the one that had been sagging—and pulled out one of the stubby Home Depot UV flashlights. “You’re sort of amazing,” Ralph said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a couple of hardhats in there, do you?” “No offense, but your sense of humor is a little weak, Ralph. You should work on that.”