The blood work was done. Probably nothin’, just old age, or whatever.
He pulled the appointment card out of the center console of the truck, was gonna pitch it in the small plastic trash bag that hung from the glovebox door.
The date handwritten on the card caught Mike Otterman between the eyes.
Enlarged in his vision somehow.
Maybe he was dizzy.
Maybe he really was sick.
No, the date meant something.
He put the truck in drive and braked almost as soon as he started.
32 years to the day since Murph got hit in the alley behind The Blarney Stone.
God, they beat that guy.
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