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The Long Way Home | Bob KochenderferHe walked through the light highway snow half a mile from the old family farmhouse, tracing the exact footprints and making pains to rub out the occasional drops of blood. The mimic of the steps was made clumsy by the lifelong limp that had generously provided his older brother with a permanent disability, the least of his many challenges.
He came upon an empty bottle of Wild Turkey resting peacefully in the snow. it was a fresh kill. he picked it up like it was a hand grenade and threw it as hard and as far as he could into the dark roadside woods. He imagined what it would be like to land blows to his brother's face, first one, then another, then a thousand for every time he'd caused the family to shrink from thelittle pride it managed to raise.
He followed the prints around the corner and came to the lights of the two truck anmd thepolice cars. Making room for a tree was his brand new Mustang, with its windshield smashed and its plastic molded cosmetics broken and scattered about like so much trash.
The cop was familiar. Small towns like this offered no anonymity. "This your car, Danny?"
"Yes sir."
"Now Danny, I'm going to have to ask you who was driving when this happened. It's a very important question Danny, and it's important that you answer truthfully."
But they both knew that was impossible.
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