The last thing I posted to this site was a while ago. Even that took an unusual amount of effort on my part. This reason is not that unusual in the world. My doctors found a lump.
I settled for the big chain store on the outskirts of town. They would be open later and would probably have a wider selection of products. There was also plenty of light and people. Signs in the parking lot said there were surveillance cameras. Given the afternoon, I wanted more security.
Five long minutes passed as I waited for the cops to arrive. Usually, if I was sitting in my van for a while, I would have reviewed notes or otherwise tried to be productive. Not this time. Instead, I sat in the darkness of my van under gloomy November skies, my arms wrapped around me. The wind blew past, and I jumped at every leaf or piece of trash that moved.
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Fortunately, the phone rang and I was once again headed down to the sheriff's office. That would keep me occupied for at least a little time. I looked forward to being questioned just to get something like social interaction. That was weird. Then I put the thought out of my mind.
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I checked on Stan the next day. He was doing well, having purchased an air mattress and sleeping bag for himself and a very nice dog bed for Sammy. Still convinced he wouldn't be there long, he declined my repeated offer of furniture. That was okay. Mrs. Sweigart got his rental agreement to him and, while they chatted, she apparently directed him to Rick Novak, my financial advisor.
With Stan and Sammy all settled, I focused on the amulet. It didn't seem to have any odor, at least as far as I could tell. Somewhere I read that a dog's sense of smell was like thirty or forty times more sensitive than a human's, so maybe Sammy could smell something I couldn't.
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Mary Sweigart's car sat in front of the apartment building. I parked ahead of her car, and Stan parked his pickup ahead of me. I got out but didn't see Mrs. Sweigart anywhere and assumed she was inside.
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I got up promptly at six o'clock just like always. Not having a real job, it would have been easy to fall into the slovenly, lazy pattern most people assumed I had. I knew that was a bad path to take, so I treated my hobby like a real job and tried to maintain professional hours.
Anyway, a few shakes of the head and some blinking of the eyes, and any memory of a gray face with black, hollow eyes faded away to wherever dreams go in the morning.
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