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There we were, face to face. Nothing but a windshield between us; the final resting place for so many of her next of kin. But she was a survivor, sitting atop my windshield wiper. Was she there to pay respects to so many that saw their demise on Interstate 71, or just taking an opportunity to give me the evil eye? Oh those eyes. Those little red, wide-set eyes. Her family had emerged after seventeen years. They, Brood XIV, must have a purpose.
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