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           Thetreeswereonlymovingshapesagainstacloudyskybacklitbytheglowfromtheairportnottoofardistant.LouisparkedtheHondaonMasonStreet.MasonborderedPleasantviewonitssouthside,andherethewindwasalmoststrongenoughtoripthecardooroutofhishand.Hehadtopushhardtoshutit.ThewindrippledathisjacketasheopenedtheHonda’shatchandtookoutthepieceoftarpaulinhehadcutandwrappedaroundhistools.

           Hewasinawingofdarknessbetweentwostreetlights,standingonthecurbwiththecanvas-wrappedbundlecradledinhisarms,lookingcarefullyfortrafficbeforecrossingtothewrought-ironfencewhichmarkedtheboundaryofthegraveyard.Hedidnotwanttobeseenatall,ifhecouldhelpit,notevenbysomeonewhowouldnoticehimandforgethimthenextsecond.Besidehim,thebranchesofanoldelmgroanedrestlesslyinthewind,makingLouisthinkofjacklegnecktieparties.God,hewassoscared.Thiswasn’twildwork;itwasmadwork.

           Notraffic.OntheMasonStreetside,thestreetlampsmarchedawayinperfectwhitecircles,castingspotlightsonthesidewalkwhere,duringthedaysafterFairmountGrammarSchoolletout,boyswouldridebikesandgirlswouldjumpropeandplayhopscotch,nevernoticingthenearbygraveyard,exceptperhapsatHalloween,whenitwouldacquireacertainspookycharm.

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