Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. She heard the television blaring away. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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