Gwynn V. Fulcher
Skip hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in 12 days. The last two days, he’d had no sleep at all. Instead he had endured waking dreams filled with anxiety-ridden situations: infants running into traffic, loved ones falling from great heights, a pet brutally attacking a child in the midst of a birthday party–shaking the little one like a doll while guests looked on curiously without concern.
After pulling another double shift at the local convenience store, he hit the lights and double-checked the sliding door from the inside around 1:46 in the morning. With a grateful sigh he exited out the back toward his brown 1994 Dodge Spirit parked in the far corner of the back lot. He looked straight up above him as he ambled to the car. It was a clear night over Chesterton, Indiana, and the big dipper was so obvious it…
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