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Twisted metal drips on blackened concrete. A scrap of police tape flutters in a bush. Pools of rainwater shaped like vehicle tracks slice across the lawn.
It's good that it's raining. This place would feel creepy otherwise. Silent. I've seen bomb craters that had whole Afghani families living in them. But this place ... died.
A horn honks behind me. I go to attention and reach for my shoulder. But there's no gun there. I'm on a street in Jersey. I'm wearing civvies -- a stupid, girly business suit that probably melts when wet or something. And the cabbie wants to go.
As I get in the taxi, I look back over my shoulder. The Pinehearst sign still stands out front, untouched. One last time, I wonder who made it out.
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