“Troy’s Buick was standing beside it. The truck was gone. Claude and the brown men were gone. It was still black night, with the moon at its lower edge now. Puddler brought a coil of rope from the shack beside the adobe. “Put your hands behind you,” Troy said to me. I kept my hands at my sides. “Put your hands behind you.” “So far I’ve been doing my job,” I said. “If you push me around some more, I’ll have a grudge against you.” ... “You talk a great fight,” Troy said. “Quiet him, Puddler.” I turned to face Puddler, not fast enough. His fist struck the nape of my neck. Pain whistled through my body like splintered glass, and the night fell on me solidly again. Then I was on a road. The road was crowded with traffic. I was responsible for the occupants of every car. I had to write a report on each, giving age, occupation, hobby, religion, bank balance, sexual proclivities, politics, crimes, and favorite eating places.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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