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The cold prison cell was cold comfort, and he flipped through the album of his memory for a happier time. His crew, a real pastiche of America were the closest thing he had to family. There was Lee Roy from Brooklyn and Hank from Jersey. Clark.. now where was he from? Ohio maybe? Finally, there was Stan from ‘bama.
He pressed his back against the hard concrete wall. If only he walked away. If only he stopped, paused, dropped that bloody trade and moved on. Instead, Stan was dead, and he was here, here, all alone.

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