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Myra

“What happened?” presses Myra, very much the Concerned Reporter.

“We made the deal.” Clem sighs heavily. “Them Hollywood types said they wanted ’em for sets, but they didn’t need the whole houses. Just the… fa-sods.” He spits. “We figured it’d be good for the community, y’know? Make us a tourist attraction. Nah. We got some money out of it, but that was gone pretty soon. Tourists never showed.”

Myra scribbles frantically. The wind whistles down the little town’s denuded main drag, punctuated by the sound of the odd two-story fall, as someone tries to lean against a wall that isn’t there.

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