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Weekly Contest #355
The storm came through around three in the morning, and Harold was awake for most of it, the way he was awake for most things now. He sat in the dark kitchen with a cup of decaf he wasn’t drinking and listened to the maple tree work itself loose, branch by branch. There was a particular sound around four, a snap and then a soft clatter against the siding, and he knew what it was even half-asleep, even before he let himself know it. He went out at six-fifteen, same as every morning. He’d been a mechanic for forty-one years, and his body still...
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