Joe’s eyes opened in the dark—his engine throbbed outside. He reached across the bed to wake Cynthia—she was gone. He pulled the curtain back as his truck rolled out of the driveway, a stranger behind the wheel, Cynthia next to him. Headlights flooded the room—her closet door stood open and empty. He ran to the living room—furniture, rug, and paintings had vanished as had the hanging pots and pans in the kitchen. Joe heard his brakes squeal at the stop sign; the guy ground Joe's gears as they accelerated into the next block. He hated that.
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"Classic"
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