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And who knows what they do in a concreted cube two hundred yards behind wires and warning signs, or who does it – or why an inch from where it would have died a sandfly fills its nest? Grasses by the road dip like a million rods to a million tiny catches. A saloon half a mile off indicates only to the clouding dusk, slows to corner the perimeter on a red route B road to home. Nothing to do but follow at a generous distance.

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