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Bassler Road

BASSLER ROAD

Jarred Simmons jerked awake, his heart hammering, expecting to see guardrails or trees looming in his headlights, but after several seconds of clutching the steering wheel he realized he was still traveling safely forward on Bassler Road.

“Sonuvabitch.”

He breathed deep and relaxed. “That was too close. Gotta stay awake or I’m dead.”

But his eyes felt heavy, exhausted. Everything blurred and mixed together. He felt little distinction between him, his Dodge RAM and the road, which stretched out before him into the night.

He rubbed the back of his neck. His last cup of coffee had worn off and his thoughts felt jumbled. His eyes burned, his face felt heavy and he had to force himself to focus on Bassler Road, which seemed much longer than he remembered.

Granted, he rarely drove this way, so he didn’t know how long Bassler Road actually was. He usually left town the other way, southeast, out toward Woodgate and Utica, but his GPS had plotted the quickest route to the int
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