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Sixteen Years, Not Sixty

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“Wally?” Jenny tightens her grip on the telephone and waves at the others to be quiet. “Wally, where are you?”

“At Moundshroud’s place. Remember Moundshroud?” Wally’s voice is thin, thinner than starlight through a veil of clouds.

“Moundshroud?” Jenny whispers, eyes wide, and at the table Tom and Ralph set down their glasses and twist in their chairs, staring at her. Joe, tall and handsome in his uniform, straightens as if he’s heard a bugle call.

“I hate to miss Halloween with you,” Wally says, “but it seems my rent came due.”

“Wally, no!”

“Tell Pipkin it was worth it.”