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Michigan

“You look like an undertaker,” says Lou, skipping a rock. He looks different without his suit and hat: older, jarred, denim and oilskin.

“Undertakers don’t wear much black, actually.” Rita’s in the silk, now, so dark it stands out against shadow. She doesn’t even have her gun.

“The Cold Man’s dead,” says Lou. “Killed by the Cold Woman?”

Rita shakes her head. “He was a man, and he broke. I unbroke him: he’s a name now, a terror, a legend. I’m merely Rita, humble agent in his affairs.”

“So I work for him now.” Lou sounds tired.

“Everyone,” says Rita, “does.”

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