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... ving around traffic, pushing eighty-five, Buzzcut humming to himself in the passenger seat.

"Uh. Can I ask what this is regarding, Matt?" Sara said, her voice carrying the typical tinny undertone that coincided with a voice call.

"Are you—does he have you screening his calls like a fucking secretary?" As usual for fucking I-20, two cars were turtle crawling the far left lanes, cruising well under the speed limit. I dropped back, crossing over to the third and gunned it.

< ...

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