Monday,
January 6th
Jack Morgan had the night off. He should have been
happy to have it, stay home, stay warm. He couldn’t. When the guys hauling snow
the night before returned from their coffee break, they took joy in belittling
him about his deer. “You sure you aren’t sucking in our fumes and
hallucinating?”
Jack decided he’d prove them wrong. He spent the night
driving from one end of town to the other, looking for his deer. He drove along
the Canal and he pulled up to the entrance to the forest preserve. Snow had
closed it in. He was tempted to use the old road behind the cannery, except
that hadn’t been plowed either. As surely as he’d pull back there is as surely
as he’d get stuck in a snow drift. He pulled up at the side of the road and sat
there for a while. He couldn’t stay though. Wahlberg was a two lane highway,
and snow piled on either side of the street made it tighter than usual.
***
Bonnie and Florence showed up Monday morning intending
to clean up their mess. The front window was boarded up, and there was glass
everywhere. The mirror had shattered into thousands of pieces, and had fallen
into clean dishes, into the open retarder where food was stored, and it
crunched beneath their feet. The light fixture sat on the floor. The antique
globe was shattered and the brass fittings were bent.
The clock wall was devastated. Bonnie was
disappointed. Florence looked to be as well. A lot of very nice people had
contributed to it. “I wonder how many we can tape together,” Florence said. It
was the first time either of them spoke.
“A few. There are stores though. Walgreens sells wall
clocks. I’m sure....”
Florence nodded, but didn’t respond. She bent to pick
up the cat clock. The tail broke off in her hand.
When the floor was swept clean and the retarder
emptied, the pair sat down to their first cup of coffee together in years. “We
need help,” Florence commented. “I will kill you if I have to work with you
much longer.”
“Only,” Bonnie commented, “If I don’t kill you first.
What if Willow comes back?”
“Fine. Until then?”
Bonnie nodded and rested her chin on her upraised arm.
“We need help.” Before the day ended, she dug out a help wanted sign. She put
it in the window, and did so with a sorry heart. Willow wasn’t easy to work
with. She was stubborn, and not very bright. But she was there every day. She
could be counted on. And she brightened the place up with her songs. Bonnie
sincerely hoped Willow would return soon.
***
Felix Boca came in early on Monday to meet with Tim
Ryan. They had a lot to cover. First off, Boca wanted to talk to the owners of
the hardware stores in town, or whoever it was who did their ordering. They
wanted to talk to this Oscar as soon as they could.
“He makes it into town twice a week,” Scott Jefferson
of Jefferson Hardware said. “Tuesday and Friday. Got his number you want to
talk to him.”
“Thank you. We appreciate it,” Boca said.
“You know this is a good guy. Real decent type. Doubt
very much you’d find he’d do something illegal or inappropriate.”
“Didn’t say he did.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Ryan, a green eyed, red
head said.
Ryan took the number and the pair retreated to the
station just long enough to contact Oscar Flores of P&P Plumbing Supplies. “Is
tomorrow early enough?” Flores asked. “I’m planning to be in Portland then.”
“You did see the plea on the news, right?” Boca asked.
“No. Got stranded down in Ottawa. Just got back last
night.”
Tomorrow is fine. Can we get you at this number if we
need you in between?”
“Sure. My cell phone.”
The pair wanted to talk to both Stubs and Borenstein.
Short of that, they’d speak with neighbors. Borenstein wasn’t home again. “He
took off this morning for Susan Marie’s,” the same woman said when they
knocked on her door.
“Detroit? Right?” Boca asked again.
“I guess. He says it’s on the Canadian border.
Detroit? That’s where the border is, right?”
Boca made a note and thanked the woman for her time.
When she closed her door, he turned to Ryan. “Small border.”
Stubs wasn’t home either. “You want him,” one woman
said, “You can usually find him working in his garage at night.”
“With all this snow,” Ryan grunted, “Doubt he’d get
back there.”
“He’d figure out a way. Real piece of work, if you ask
me. Like he’s more at home there than he is in the house. Pity about his
girlfriend disappearing. She was a nice girl. Never understood what she saw in
him.”
“I’ve known him all his life,” an old man said. “Knew
his parents real well. Good people. Hard working people.” The man shook his
head. “Pity. He’s an only child and they spoiled the hell out of him. Drunk,
obnoxious, embarrassing. They were always rescuing him after he pulled
something stupid. Saw that thing on the news. If his girlfriend is missing, I
wouldn’t put it past him to be the cause. She was too good for him.”
“You know what?” Another neighbor strained to be heard
over the sound of the trash hauler that just pulled up next door. “I avoid him.
If he isn’t drunk, he’s picking fights with her. I hear more yelling and
screaming coming out of that house than I do at a wrestling match. Damned loud.
Yesterday he went berserk over animals and crap. Just him. He did all the
screaming. Then he pitched an awful lot of crap. Check the trash.” The man
nodded at the cans on the street. Two garbage men latched onto loaded trash
cans and were busy emptying them into the truck. The back came down as they
worked, smashing the contents of the can and pulling it forward into the truck.
One of the men picked up a couple of pinkish looking
bags that sat on a snow pile next to the can he had just emptied. Felix reacted
quickly. “Hey!” he shouted at the garbage men. “Ho! Hey!” He took off up a
shoveled walkway, slipping and sliding, crawling into snow drifts and
attempting to walk or run on the top of the drifts. As he waved his arms, his
feet sank again, allowing the snow to fill his boots one more time. “Hey, hold
up.” The second man retreated to the curb to replace the can he held. He
reached out for one of those bags. The men stopped. “We need those!” The men
looked confused. As Boca struggled, he pulled his jacket open, revealing his
badge. “We need those bags!” The men set the bags down and backed off.
Callaghan wasn’t happy when the pair returned to the
station carrying garbage bags. “I don’t need that shit all over here. I got my
own coffee grounds.”
“Got it out of Stubs garbage,” Ryan explained.
“What is it?”
“Garbage.”
Callaghan folded his arms over his breast and stared.
That had Boca thinking about lemons again. “Hey, Sarg,” he soothed, holding in
a chuckle, “No idea what’s in there. You want to take a chance we’re throwing
out evidence?”
“Just clean up your mess,” he growled at Ryan.
The pair took over a vacant interrogation cell and
opened the first bag. They found pillows and tablecloths, dish towels and hot
pads, broken ceramics and clothing. Tim matched up three pairs of boots and six
pairs of shoes. When the Chief and Callaghan popped in to see their progress,
they were sorting through a collection of underwear.
“From what I’ve seen,” Ryan began, “It’s all clean.
Freshly folded, just out of the dryer. Now tell me why he’s throwing out his
girlfriend’s clothing.” He sniffed. And shrugged. “Smells like dryer sheets.”
“Now the bastard is sniffing panties,” Callaghan
cracked.
Boca scrunched up one of the plastic bags. “You think
we have enough for a warrant?”
“Doubt it. Still, let me make a couple of phone calls,”
Callaghan commented as he rubbed his chin. “Inventory it in and tag it as
evidence.”
Ramos nodded. “That was good thinking.”
***
“Hi.” Mikey stood in the doorway of Sophie’s
classroom. He wore his coat, but dragged his backpack on the floor.
“Hi,” she responded. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering if I could wait here
for a while. Grandma’s still at work and I forgot my keys.”
“You have homework to do?”
“Sure,” he said slipping into a desk. “I have math
homework. We’re working on fractions. Kind of confusing.”
“Maybe I can help. Although I will say I’m better with
maps and timelines than I am with fractions.” Mikey could keep her company
until it was time to pick up his siblings from daycare.
***
Red returned to his job on Monday morning. Monday
evening he stopped at the liquor store and bought a fresh case of beer. It was
the first time he had to pay for it in years. He stopped on his way home for a
bag of McDonald Hamburgers. He ate his meal with a can of cold beer, and then
he shoveled the front walk. When that was done, he had another beer. Then he
salted the path he and Milk had created in the back yard when they cemented
the floor. He checked the floor. Another day or two, it would be dry, and he
could return everything to the garage. Ha! He had her this time. He took the
shovel with him and returned to the house. He’d sleep well tonight.
***
Jack Morgan arrived on duty expecting the same
harassment as the last time he worked. One of the guys did make a crack about a
deer and a whole bunch of little deeries asking for him. When he didn’t come,
they went home disappointed. “Packed up their hot pink printer paper and just
went away.”
“Bite me, jackass.”
The man chuckled and placed the same unlit cigar in
his mouth that he had been chewing on throughout the entire project.
An hour later the operation stopped. A scruffy coyote
dragged itself down the middle of Miami. It came across the cluster of trucks
and backed away. It sat down, its tongue hanging out, and watched the men.
“I thought they hibernated during winter,” cigar head
murmured.
Tuesday,
January 7th
“I said no more dreams,” Red shouted at her.
She smiled, and nodded. Then she turned about and
limped away. Her animal friends sat in front of him, just watching her leave.
“You, too. Out!” he ordered.
The coyote wagged his tail, the others shook theirs
outward. Then with heads down and chattering among themselves, they followed
Willie. She even opened the outer door for them.
“About friggin’ time,” Red cracked.
***
“I called a few people,” Callaghan commented. “There
isn’t a judge in Cook County willing to issue a warrant on what we have. She’s
missing. That’s it. Nothing pointing to her being anything else. Now if those
things you brought in were bloody and we could match her blood type...”
“So what do we do with her things?” Ryan asked.
“Gee, Tim. You look good in pink,” Callaghan cracked. “Of
course if you don’t want to try anything on, we could leave it in the evidence
locker in case something we can use does materialize.”
Oscar Flores arrived at the Police Station at nine o’clock
in the morning. As the description was originally given, Flores stood a good
three or four inches short of Ryan. He was in his mid to late thirties, and
really undistinguished looking with the exception of what might have been the
shadow of teenage acne. His dress, though, was precise. If he wore an overcoat
at all, he had left it in his vehicle. His gray slacks were perfectly creased
and matched his suit jacket. He wore a silky, peacock blue T-shirt underneath.
His black boots showed little salt residue and had been shined until glowing
since the last time he wore them. His coif was all the rage and his cologne was
strong and sweet. He spoke with a slight accent, which made Tim think that
maybe Flores was fluent in Spanish. Although immigration into the area of late
was expansive most of the Hispanics Ryan knew personally, were third or
fourth generation, and didn’t speak Spanish at all.
Ryan took him into Callaghan’s office and closed the
door. Flores sat in a chair and Ryan sat at the edge of Callaghan’s desk.
Before he did anything, he took a good look at this guy’s tan colored eyes. “You
wear colored contacts?” he asked.
The guy shrugged. “Sure. Got blue, green, violet even.
The ladies like blue.”
“Hump.” Tim took a moment to make a note to himself. “Wear
them often?”
“Sure. Like I said. The ladies like the blue.” Flores
made his chair squeak when he shifted his weight.
Next he showed Flores Willow Pratt’s picture. “You
know her?”
“Yeah.” The man’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“How do you know her?”
“That coffee shop on Miami. She works there.”
“I’ve been told that a blue eyed Hispanic has asked
her out. Is that you?”
“Sure. Look at her. She’s cute.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Ah, last week sometime. Probably Friday. When I
stopped for coffee.”
“What did you do New Year’s Eve?”
“Went to a party.”
“Where?”
“Waukegan.”
“You have witnesses that can place you there?”
“Sure. It was one of those banquet halls that sell
tickets for dinner and music. Went with some friends.”
Ryan handed him a pad and pen. “You mind giving me
names? Someone I can call to verify this?”
“Yeah, I do. Why were you looking for me anyway?”
“Willow Pratt. Last seen on New Year’s Eve right here
in Portland. Someone said they saw you or someone that looks like you with her
last.”
"I was in Waukegan all day. That’s not exactly a run
to the corner and back.”
“No, you’re right. You can substantiate that, we can
write you off our list.” Flores picked up the pad and pen, and balanced the
pad on his knee. When finished writing, he handed Ryan both pen and paper. “So,
you ever been in Pinkies’?” Tim asked.
The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “What’s
Pinkies’?”
When Felix made it in, Tim showed him his notes. “It
checks out,” he explained. “This Flores character was in Waukegan all day.”
Felix tucked his hand in the waist band of his jeans. “X
him off our list.”
“No warrant either.”
Felix shook his head. “Didn’t expect it. Haven’t got
much more to do here until we have a body or something.”
"You want to give up on Stubs?”
Boca shook his head at that. “Nope. Him and
Borenstein. Talk to both of them.”
Friday,
January 10th
Karolyn Mathers picked up a copy of the Suburban Daily
News when she passed through Worth the day before. The Portland Police
Department wanted volunteers to help pass out handbills. Just what she had been
waiting for. She made note of the address and set her alarm. At eight thirty
the next morning, she took off from her apartment on Chicago’s North Shore, and
drove the Dan Ryan onto I-57. She got off at 127th Street, and took that
straight west to Miami. She arrived just as others did.
*
A local print shop donated ten thousand white, pink,
blue, green and yellow handbills with Willow Pratt’s picture on it. It asked
that anyone seeing her to call the Portland Police. About fifty people, mostly
housewives, retirees, off duty police and firefighters, met at Twin Sisters
for a cup of free coffee and an earful of instructions.
The day was bright and crisp, and most of these people
were bundled up in layers upon layers of clothing. As they waited, they shed
the outer layers. The local TV stations sent out reporters with cameras and
other equipment. This created a huge traffic jam between tables.
Pat Callaghan handed one stack of flyers to Ruth Ellen
de Boer and one stack to Felix Boca. “Can I trust you two to pass these out
without hitting on each other?” The pair turned away from him quickly.
A reporter pulled Ruth Ellen over and asked her about
why she was out there, and what she hoped to do. Felix saw that and rushed
over. She tried to push him aside as she spoke. Since her promotion to
sergeant, he had been seething and she couldn’t wait to rub it in.
*
The Channel 7 reporter recognized Karolyn Mathers. “Are
you offering your help?” Anna Lisa Heffernan asked.
Karolyn took a green flyer from the large woman police
sergeant, and rubbed it with both hands. She closed her eyes, and dramatically
drew in. “I have a feeling,” she said. She opened her eyes. “I just wanted to
be sure.”
“What kind of feeling? Do you think you can find
Willow Pratt?”
One more time, Karolyn closed her eyes and drew in. “Maybe
I can.”
*
The player piano banged out ‘Hearts and Roses,’ over
and over, and was really getting on Callaghan’s nerves. “Can one of you ladies
turn this off?” he asked the Rennault sisters. The pair looked at each other in
surprise, like they hadn’t heard the racket before, and then back at him. One
finally did come forward.
“I didn’t turn that on,” one whispered to the other
when she finished up.
“I neither.”
“It did not turn itself on.”
“I never said it did.”
“That’s what you said about it last night.”
“You turned it on last night.”
“Ladies,” Callaghan called from the stage, “We need to
get this in gear.” He held up a yellow flyer to the group that had gathered. “Okay,
Detective Boca and Sergeant de Boer are passing about flyers. Take a handful.
We’ll assign you a location. Some of you will pass these out to pedestrians.
Some of you will tack them up on bulletin boards. I want people in the parking lots
tucking these under windshield wipers. There’s three Metra stations in town,
at least six Metra parking lots. And don’t forget the hospital parking lots and
the parking lots behind Miami. I want people walking up Miami and Fort Dearborn
Trail tucking these under windshield wipers of cars on the street. Any left
over, we’ll stand in the middle of intersections of 119th, 123rd, 127th,
135th, and so on. If you people can come back tomorrow, please do. We’ll be
concentrating on shoppers then, and finishing up what we started today. Okay,
the firefighters will give you assignments. Good luck.”
Callaghan stepped away from the stage. A pair of
firefighters had provided copies of maps. He no sooner pulled out a chair at
their table than someone turned on the player piano again. It was loud and
irritating. When he turned back to the sisters behind the counter, he found
them arguing again. He shook his head. The reporter finished the woman she
talked to after Boca and Ruth Ellen, and had charged the table where he and the
firefighters sat. “Do any of you gentlemen know Willow Pratt?” The reporter
asked.
Callaghan shook his head. The others with him were
more willing to impart their experience or even discuss their call to civic
action. Over in a corner he located his off duty officers. Volunteers were
assaulting them, demanding flyers. Ruth Ellen pointed at Felix, tapping his
chest. Felix brushed her finger away. The pair bore in on each other, mouthing
and exaggerating their words. Callaghan made himself get up. “Hey, Boca, de
Boer, get a room,” he barked, their way. ‘God help this train wreck,’ he
thought. If this resulted in someone actually seeing this girl, he’d be
surprised.
*
Someone must have been laughing their asses off
thinking of Ruth Ellen and Boca in the same parking lot, passing out flyers. If
she went one way with her flyers, he went right behind her, adjusting each she
put out, and returning the wiper blade to a better position. It was pure spite.
That was it. Just spite. And just for spite, she dropped her flyers. She
grabbed a huge handful of snow instead of picking up the flyers, and formed it
into a snowball. “Hey, Boca,” she called. “What the hell are you doing?”
He had one hand on a flyer and another on a wiper
blade. When he turned to her, he opened his mouth to retort. She wound up, and
let her snowball loose. It hit him point blank in the mouth.
*
Callaghan crossed Miami in front of Twin Sisters’ on
his return journey to the Police Department. He was fairly proud of the work he
had just completed. Only when he came upon a mesh trash can in front of the
Portland Antique Emporium, he found a huge stack of green flyers in the bottom
of the can. That really pissed him off. If that person didn’t want to be bothered,
why did he show up? Was someone really that crass? He grabbed the stack from
the bottom of the can. He’d save them for the next day.
*
Bill and Art Weber drove about in Bill’s unmarked
squad. Art wanted to see the volunteers in action. On Miami, a woman knocked on
their window. Art rolled his down. “Chief,” she said, nodding at Bill. “Mayor
Weber.” She passed Art two green flyers, waved and ran off to pass another
flyer to the driver behind them. Art nodded appreciably. “Who do you say
organized this?” he asked.
“Callaghan.”
“And you passed him up for promotion for what reason?”
Bill grunted and turned onto 135th Street. “The same
reason you passed him up for me.”
“I passed him up because I had you,” Art retorted. “You
are a natural. I promoted you because I knew if I left you’d fill my place.”
“I’m not planning to run for mayor anytime soon.”
“Tell me you don’t think that Callaghan couldn’t do
your job.”
“Probably better than I can. You put him in the office
across from me now, and I promise you I’ll shoot him in the balls before the
day is out.”
Art shrugged and crossed his arms. “All right. I don’t
like him any better than you do. Tell me that Unsinger has the leadership
ability that Callaghan has.”
"Bob Unsinger is good as long as someone is there
telling him what to do. He doesn’t have Callaghan’s organizational ability.”
Art nodded at a volunteer and held up his flyer. Bill
pulled up a little further, and made a right into the Metra parking lot just
east of Klieg Drive. Most of the cars had been tagged with blue flyers. Green
flyers littered the ground, and separated in the wind. A snowball caught Bill’s
attention when it crossed the hood of his car. Another went splat all over his
windshield. Looking about, he found his reason. A blonde behemoth of a woman
hid behind a car on the side of the lot that ended where the Fort Dearborn
Trail bridge hit the embankment. A tall Hispanic male darted in front of Bill’s
squad. He dove past the woman. She jumped out at him and tackled him. As Bill
and Art watched, the pair rolled about in the snow, attempting to rub snow in
each other’s face.
“Now that’s a problem,” Bill cried in disgust. “I can’t
put those two on the same detail that I’m not pulling them apart.” Bill moved
up as close to the hill as he could, and laid on the horn.
*
Red stopped at the Twenty Four - Seven out on Wahlberg
for cigarettes. As he passed a bulletin board, a woman he didn’t know tacked up
a notice on pink paper with Willie’s picture on it. She spun about, obviously
proud of herself for doing her civic duty, smiled at him, passed him another
notice, and then left. Red glanced at the picture. He watched through the glass
doors as the woman jumped in her mini-van and drove off. Then he tore down the
first notice and wadded them both up.
*
Evelyn and Harry Pratt watched the dinner hour news. Anna Lisa whatever the hell her name was, was supposed to be in town, talking to volunteers. She talked to that big police sergeant, and to a firefighter who helped to organize this. She also talked to a woman with bright red highlights over black hair. The woman looked like a prune with red lipstick. “Psychic Karolyn Mathers,” Anna Lisa whatever said. “Are you offering your help?”
The woman took a green flyer and rubbed it with both
hands. She closed her eyes, and dramatically drew in. “I have a feeling,” she
said. She opened her eyes. “I just wanted to be sure.”
“What kind of feeling? Do you think you can find
Willow Pratt?”
She closed her eyes again. “Maybe I can.”
Evelyn turned to her husband. Could this woman help?
She had one hell of a reputation.
Karolyn Mathers frowned. “I don’t honestly think this
girl is with us. I think she’s passed onto the next world.” She glanced about,
moving her head and her hands emphatically. “In fact I can feel her in this
room. If I’m not mistaken, she’s spent a lot of time right here.”
“You think?” Evelyn asked in Harry’s direction.
He shook his head, and again, refused to look at her. “I
don’t know. How much do you trust people like her?”
“It might be worth a shot.”
Harry looked past her towards the TV set. “We’ll see.”
That was hopeful. His eyes took on a hazy reflection. Like he was looking at
the TV, but he certainly wasn’t seeing it. He must have been thinking.
Saturday,
January 11th
A flurry left a dusting of fresh snow. Nothing more.
The weight of what was on the ground, pushed down on itself, compacting it,
transforming snow into ice crystals. A crust formed over the top and when
broken, razor sharp edges scraped bare skin and tore at clothing. Red picked
his belongings out of the snow and returned them to their place in the garage.
He blew on his hands to warm them, rubbed them together and shoved them in his
pockets as he returned for more.
During his tantrums he had pitched tools, spare parts,
paint and garbage without regard to where they landed. He spilled oil and
transmission fluid, and he cursed himself because it was something he could use
rather than her pink paint. He’d find a place for everything inside, except for
the pink paint. That he pitched in the garbage.
The floor turned out reasonably well considering how
quickly they did it. It seemed fairly even, and had few swirl spots where Milk
scraped his trowel against it. Red was satisfied though. So much so, he decided
exactly where he wanted to park his ‘baby’, and exactly how ‘she’d’ look once
he had parked her there.
He considered leaving ‘her’ on the street at least one
more day. The City snow plows made a trip through the alley, but the drivers
weren’t very careful about where they pushed the snow. God only knows, if these
guys showed a little more initiative, they wouldn’t have to block anyone in by
pushing their snow against cars or garage doors. If nothing else, the City
could provide some of those losers with shovels. For God’s sake they dug out
Uptown. They could do the same for him. He paid enough taxes.
As he sorted it all out in his head, he took to the
street. Milk parked ‘her’ on Simon Street just around the corner from the
alley. He said he did anyway.
Only Red couldn’t find her. He walked uphill, down the
center of the street, checking both sides. He saw a black Olds and a gray Ford,
but he didn’t see his black Corvette. On Fort Dearborn, he saw his neighbor’s
blue Pontiac, and his old blue F-150 pick-up, but not his Corvette. A half
block down, he decided to turn back and look again. He had to bypass it
somehow. Only it wasn’t on his block. And it wasn’t on the next. It wasn’t on
the Simon Street on either side of the intersection.
'Crap,’ he thought. Some bastard ripped him off good.
He hurried back to the house to call 911.
“I found it,” the 911 operator told him. “It was
towed.”
“What?”
“It was parked in a ‘two inch’ zone. It’s at the
impound lot. A hundred and fifty for the tow, plus the price of the parking
ticket.”
“What parking ticket?”
“You parked it in a ‘two inch’ zone during the snow
storm. It’s a fifty dollar violation.”
Red pulled the phone from his ear and examined it for
a long moment. He drew in and replaced it. “What the fuck is a ‘two inch’ zone?”
“It’s a fifty dollar violation. You want your car, you
bring me fifty, and bring a hundred and fifty to the impound lot. They open
first thing Monday morning.”
***
“You know,” Pat Callaghan said when he answered the
phone for the hundredth time that day, “I haven’t talked to this woman. I have
no idea who she is or what she saw. She didn’t talk to me about Willow Pratt or
anything else.”
“Do you think she can help?”
“I have no idea.”
“You think you should call her maybe?”
“If the Pratt family wants this woman, fine. The
Portland P.D. is not in the habit of hiring psychics.”
***
He glanced out the back window and there she was
again. Sitting on the picnic table with her back to him, looking down at the
garage. She held something in her hands that looked like the wadded up notice
he tossed in the garbage at the Twenty Four - Seven. Why wouldn’t she just go
away? Take all those miserable little critters with her, too. He shut the
curtain and went back to bed.
When he woke up, he went back to the same window. The
curtains were gone. He had pitched them with his only decent blanket. The
picnic table was still buried beneath a ton of snow, and most of those animals
should have been hibernating.
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