THE STRAYS by Pen of the Damned’s Joseph Pinto
He didn’t much like his new job. He liked working with the old man even less.
Not because the old man’s pores leaked bourbon and unfulfilled aspirations each morning; he could tolerate that. No, it was because he was the low man on the totem pole, and the old man was a downright hard-ass about it.
The old man blurted, “Got another one,” then resumed whistling the tune he’d started a mile back down the road.
He didn’t know how the old man did it, how he could spot the strays so quickly. He tried and tried but just couldn’t. All he could see was the pitted road that bumped them along, an endless stretch exiled from the interstate; lonely fields, crusty with frost. Grey clouds smothered both of them, greedy in their need to devour the sky. The kid wrung his hands. In spite of himself, he asked…
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