"You could hear the Buick before you saw it—low, steady rumble like a baritone singer with a cold. Then it rolled into Fort Stockton, slow and wide as a cattle drive, with more faux wood than a church fellowship hall on potluck night.
A green 1979 Buick Estate Wagon, fresh from a long haul.
Kids at the Dairy Twin pointed and whispered. Men outside the Rusty Hammer squinted, hands on their hips, like cowboys sizing up a stranger's horse. Rusty himself muttered, "That ain't a car,…"
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