“It was in a clearing, deep in the woods, at the end of a rarely traveled, weed-choked track. There was no vehicle to be seen, but the garden was well tended, the woodpile large and ready for the coming fall and winter. a few articles of clothing hung listlessly on a rope between two trees off to the side, in the afternoon sun. To Willy, it was symbolic of a life stripped down, its momentum as arrested and preserved as if held in solitary confinement. Defying unwritten protocol, Willy didn't... wait for a reaction from inside the cabin, but immediately exited the car, stood before it to be clearly visible, and held his badge up high. In response, the rough wooden door opened to reveal a thin, balding man with a long gray beard, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of bibbed overalls. He reminded Willy more of some touristy calendar art than a sample of the local culture. "Nate Rozanski?" he called out. The man didn't move at first, as if frozen by the greeting, before his shoulders slumped and he answered quietly, "I figured you'd show up sooner or later." Willy approached.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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