</a> Cyrus opened his eye when the truck came to a halt, considered the old shack that was strung with Christmas lights, and had an American flag drooping and seared thin and pale by the unrelenting sun. The outside was bound with tin plates and baling wire, with smooth sheets of asbestos insulation peering through, and gleaming in the afternoon light. Barbed wire stretched away to either side, blocking off a field that had a definite slope to it, as the hard rains of June had eroded the dried-out husk of the soil, and made it impossible to work.
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Benjy Custer was a regular guest at Hostetler Baptist, where he came in regularly to tell stories of how he’d once been a wicked man, and jailed for his sins. And he told a pretty good story about how he’d found Jesus while he was in the lockup, and changed his ways. But given the things he was doing when he wasn’t helping the pastor warm a few hearts on Sunday, Cyrus thought that Benjy had decided that now it was his turn to hide, and Jesus was having some trouble finding him
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You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
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Ah, shit.
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Catalina’s words came back to Cyrus. They''re usually trying to buy something we don''t sell…
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</a> Someone cleared their throat, and Cyrus looked up to see a stranger in the doorway.
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That was a shock. Cyrus had thought that dad had been pacing himself… then he looked down to the mug in Dad’s hand, for the first time. It was tilted, just a bit, and he could see the liquid inside was clear. Not amber, clear. Well, shit.
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The only good part of that rumble of fear and hatred was that Cyrus managed to get his Dad and Dave Beel through the door without anyone taking notice, as they drank and yelled and worked themselves up. It was mostly hot air, he reckoned. Then Catalina’s face flickered through his memory, and he hoped
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