Of all the things Jimmy Heron ever imagined he’d do in his most predictable life, driving his dead wife’s body home in the back of their truck was not one of them. But there she lay in the camper, Lou Heron, just deader’n hell, as Miz Bridwell would say, packed down tight in a particle board box with a bullet hole the size of a cigar butt beside her left eye.
Jimmy sucked in his breath at the thought of it and tears streamed down his cheeks in great rivers, snaking their way through the gray stubble on his jaw and hanging there like rain drops on a roof’s edge before dripping onto his neck and chest. He was a man still in shock; if a growling chainsaw suddenly got tossed into the cab of the truck and ground his nose off, he’d never even notice.
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