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Weekly Contest #320
The windows were cracked and the cool Oregon air poured into the car, sharp with salt and damp earth. Brandon Benjamin left his apartment from Portland’s Pearl District about two hours ago. He was chasing something he couldn’t name—quiet, maybe, or clarity, or just enough distance from anywhere that the phone calls and emails and whispers couldn’t reach him. The Wilson River Highway wound through forest, the kind that pressed right up to the edge of the asphalt, dark trunks rising like sentinels. It was beautiful, in that moody, untamed way ...
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