After that long ordeal, I head west to Las Vegas. Not only have I always wanted to visit there, but I heard on the radio that there was a strange report stemming from there, of a woman with red hair who mysteriously killed a five-year-old. “She does like her little children.” I murmur under my breath before pulling in the gas station to fill up.
I gaze into the rearview mirror before I climb out of the truck and sigh because I really need a shave and a shower. Matter of fact, now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I have had one. Surely, I must be smelling pretty rank about now.
As I stroll up to the little station, I look up at the sign above the door and it says, “Marathon, get food and gas here.” I can’t help but to laugh at that before I enter and see an ol
