"They called it the Blue Comet, and it showed up one dusty Tuesday in Fort Stockton like something out of a fever dream—half pickup, half spaceship, all attitude. It hit Main Street low and slow, chrome glinting like God's own Airstream had landed, with a cobalt cabover Ford F-5 up front and windows stacked like a wedding cake. You could hear it before you saw it—a low rumble, like distant thunder with a V8 snarl.
Behind the wheel? Lyman Crow. Or what was left of him. Ten years ago, he…"
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