Pain whistled through my body like splintered glass and the night fell on me solidly again. Then i was on a road. The road was crowded with traffic. I was responsible for the occupants of every car. I had to write a report on each, giving age, occupation, hobby, religion, bank balance, sexual proclivities, politics, crimes and favourite eating places. The passengers changed cars frequently, like people playing musical chairs. The cars changed numbers and colour. My pen ran out of ink. A blue truck picked me up and changed to funeral black. Eddie was at the wheel and i let him drive. I was planning to kill a man.
The Moving Target
Ross MacDonald
1949
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