He goes out, his future self — his November self — riding in his March head like a stowaway. It wasn't frostbite at all. Five minutes. A car turned in — just what he needed, a customer while he was on the verge of tossing his cookies.
Dear Christ, there'd been nothing like this since they were kids and this was worse, like picking up a power-line filled with voices instead of electricity. It hurt terribly, as of legions battering for release on a lockeddoor. I can understand their doing it. Not your problem.
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