On Mondays, his route included a detour around the community garden, where Mrs. Sanderson and her yappy beagle staged daily protests against someone or other. The sameness of his days suited him; he found comfort in the predictable, the reliable. But three weeks ago, the town's only bara squat cinderblock building lacquered in the kind of paint that faded as soon as it driedsent out a ripple of panic that left Dargan deeply unsettled.
The bartender, Charlie Wicks, was gone. Not "called in sick" gone or "off on a bender" gonejust vanished.
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