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The Way Station

By Shay Hatten

The wheels on the bus went round and round and round, and sitting inside, Terry was dead, dead, dead.

In spite of that, or maybe because of it, he looked out the window at the road ahead. And saw it end. Not in the earthly way, not with roadblocks and construction signs, but in a more ethereal sort of way. It just ended. Disappeared. So did the landscape that it ran across. The whole desert simply stopped about thirty feet in front of them. And they were moving towards it at full speed; which, for this bus, was about fifty miles an hour.

Terry rose to his feet and stepped out into the aisle.

“Going down!” the Driver called.

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