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The Station With No Name Justin Stanchfield Moonlight bathed the asphalt, gray to silver and back again as clouds raced in fast procession over the narrow canyon. David Riordan negotiated his tired Sentra slowly along the tight curves that followed the river nearly a quarter mile below, the water a ghostly mirror of the winding highway. The canyon widened ahead, revealing sagebrush-covered foothills as alien as the surface of the moon in the headlight glare. The road turned away from the river and began to climb. The radio, silent but for static within the canyon's shadow, now came once more to life. Riordan reached for the tuner, then paused, a forgotten tingle reawakening in his nerves. It was the fight with Tami this morning that had him on edge, he convinced himself, nothing more. "She has the same clothes to get happy in," he muttered, the reason behind the fight already forgotten. Around him, the radio pumped out a fast country song, indistinguishable from every other song he had heard since leaving work an hour earlier. Annoyed with the music, he stabbed the selector switch and flipped over to AM. Static burst from the speaker, a hint of distant lightning. The highway steepened, and he dropped the transmission into fourth. Darkness swept over the desolation as the moon slipped once more behind clouds. Riordan topped the hill and wondered how many times had he driven this road, doing the math as an exercise to stay awake. Five nights a week. Fifty-two weeks a year, and never mind vacations. How many endless, useless miles between where he had been and where he was going. The road to nowhere. He felt trapped in a tape loop, as if some distant night-jock had put the song on replay and left the station. On the radio, a late night talk show played out. Sports. Someone lamenting a bad trade with the Lakers. Riordan scowled. "This is worse than the shit-kicker stuff," he muttered.
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