A washing machine, three tires, and a rusted oven lie strewn across the field behind my house. An overhanging branch knocks my window every few minutes, almost talking with the pregnant cat outside.
In the truck in front of me on 166, there's a short blonde behind the wheel, a shorter baseball hat in the middle, and a brunette man talking in the passenger seat. He's "No. 1" and someone named Charlie died in 1986, according to the stickers on the back window.
The puddle in my driveway, at the top right corner by the garbage can no one empties, looks like the face of Jesus Christ.
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