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10-197.

joneworlds@mailbox.org

I got done setting the draw pins about 6:30 or something, and thought I'd better go check out the scene before supper. I go down the hill by Dr. Chin's fallow, and it's like probably nine or ten cruisers there already, blocking the way. Blueberries and cherries everywhere.

These ones are the roughest for them. It's all over, that unease, tired and traded between them, over and through. Even they can't get used to this. And the cones and baffles and tapes are already up over it, but I don't need to see it to know: it's happened again, and it's a weird one this time. The ministry won't send two principals out to these sorry sticks, for nothing. This one's no leg-crawler.

And them two are talking to the captain, and there's pointing and there's gestures, all that. But she's just listening. This one won't be her deal. No way, it's gone beyond that.

And there's constables down crouching over it, and some on the radio. Crackle bee-de-boo crackle. Some are looking over shoulders, hoping no one sees their thousand yards.

And it's evening, but still so goddamn hot like it always is now, that I can smell my own feet stinking in my loafers. Or is that the sap from Chin's oaks? Something's not right about those. And the crickets are out, but not so many as once there was. And they sound off, too. Brrr-eee.

It gets hard to put a finger on this stuff. Floating dread. But that on the road, that dread's got a name. Guess I'll take comfort in that.