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The noise and lights of the ward closed in around Sean. He scooped up his recorder. de palma "Thanks, Grampa," he said, woodenly. "I'll see you tomorrow." "Bye, Sean," Grampa said, and came around the table for another hug and kiss. Sean checked into the first motel he found, the Lamplighter Inn, de palma on a dreary strip populated with disused water-parks and crumbling plazas. He lay down on the bed, fed the Magic Fingers, and played back the recording. It was junk. The noise of the ward masked nine words in ten, and what words made it through de palma were empty, devoid of any kind of emotional freight. He tried to transcribe it longhand, filling in the blanks from memory, but couldn't keep his mind on it. He took off his sweaty, wrinkled T-shirt and slacks, dumped out his suitcase on the chipped, cigarette-burned table, and found his bathing suit. There was one other guest by the pool, an old, old woman in a one-piece with a skirt, wearing a sunhat tilted to shade her from the last of the pounding Florida sun. |
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