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Weekly Contest #272
I saw the farmhand, first. He started out as a small silhouette, barely visible though my car windshield, his frame dwarfed by the vast expanse of cornfields. That must be Ben, I thought, remembering the letter my uncle had sent me the week before. I sighed. As much as I hated myself for getting into this situation, I knew there was no way out. Not after my divorce and my failed career as an author. It was either this: live with my eccentric uncle on his farm ...
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