John Michael Strubhart

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We raced westward at forty-five miles per hour, then fifty, fifty-five, over furrowed ground on which the tires drummed, testing the springs. The body of the Explorer rattled at every connection to the chassis, and we accelerated to sixty, sixty-five. The transport closed to six feet, so near to us now that the previous illusion of immateriality could not sustain.
Quicksilver
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