I watched Tom Nelson draw a timeline on a yellowed dry-erase board at the little town Sheriff’s office. His brown and tan uniform hung off his frame and wondered how much pestering his wife Janet gave him about it. The room had one window, next to the door, and the drapes testified of days when people sewed their own things and practical was more important than pretty. They hung, tired and stained, fastened in the middle by a couple wooden clothespins to keep curious onlookers at bay. The walls bore old paint, slightly discolored above the ancient baseboard heaters that worked only part of the time nowadays. Jack and his brother Jarod had begun plans to put a propane heater in the collection of rooms that comprised the office, in the only noticeable “city” building in town. They called it “Town Hall” but it looked more like a workshop.
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