Wednesday. Bob walked into Surplus City Guns. Full denim. He purchased a pack of twelve gauge slugs and the Casio cash register sang. Loose asphalt crunched as Bob’s powder blue pickup pulled out of the lot. It looked like rain and all the cars rolled hurriedly down the boulevard. When the church bell sounded, there was nobody outside to hear it. The rain began seconds later. Vending machines hummed and whirred at the Bensalem truck stop. The air was humid and the white cinderblock walls were indifferent as they had always been. The air was not well-conditioned; grease and oil could be smelled wafting in from the garage where the mechanics worked. A single computer running Windows 98 sat in the dining area. Its monitor, fastened securely to the table, displayed a finished game of Solitaire.
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