“Sir,” said the guard from behind me. “I’d appreciate it if you left your club here.” I paused and looked over my shoulder. He had a gun. His hand wasn’t exactly resting on it, but he’d tucked his thumb into his belt about half an inch away. “It isn’t a club,” I said calmly. “It’s a walking stick.” “Six feet long.” “It’s traditional Ozark folk art.” “With dents and nicks all over it.” I thought about it for a second. “I’m insecure?” “Get a blanket.” He held out his hand. I sighed and passed my staff over to him. “Do I get a receipt?” He took a notepad from his pocket and wrote on it. Then he
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