One night my 5-year-old niece called me, whispering through tears, “i’m alone, i’m hungry… i can’t move. i think i’m dy:ing. please help.” the line suddenly went dead. when i got to her house, i found her in a horrific condition. what followed was beyond belief.
he phone’s shrill cry cut through John Hail’s dreamless sleep like a blade. His calloused hand fumbled across the nightstand, knocking over an empty beer bottle before finding the device. The digital clock glowed 12:43 a.m. in harsh red numbers. “Hello?” His voice was a gravelly rasp, a product of too many cigarettes and too many nights…
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