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Solomon

The storm didn’t roll in; there was no rolling involved. It slid, an avalanche tied to an oil slick, very quickly.

By the time Solomon realizes he shouldn’t be out in the beech copse, it’s too late. Later, he might recall that the bolt didn’t so much strike from heaven as it did leap from the earth, or he might not. The impact is about a hundred and fifty feet away. The thunder is tangible as brick. It picks him up, carries him and deposits him in a vague and pleasant dream, where friendly llamas help him stomp plums into wine.

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