CHEESEBURGERS! YES!
RICK RUSEK’S STOMACH grumbled, trying to get his attention. He ignored it and sat back on his heels, gazing at the rectangle of heavy-gauge aluminum on his bedroom floor. The sign looked a lot better now that he’d swabbed it in the bathtub with some wet paper towels. He admired its clean lines, black words bold and solid against the candy-corn-orange background: ROAD WORK NEXT 5 MILES
It was Wednesday night, and his radio played the allweather all-traffic station on low volume. He listened with half an ear to reports of cars clogging Los Angeles freeways and desert winds sweeping toward the Pacific Ocean. Rick had never been to the beach, even though the California coast was only thirty miles from his home, but the constant noise of cars driving by outside his window was what he imagined ocean waves sounded like. That is, if the ocean’s rhythmic whoosh-shoosh got punctuated by -- -
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