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Short Story - The Walks

On the coldest night of the year, I park outside my childhood home. A glance at the dash shows twenty-two degrees. I realize I’ve forgotten my gloves. But there’s no point in going back now. I press the button, climb out of the car, and get on with it.  I blow out a puff of steam, take in the chill, and stuff my hands in my pockets. Walk number twenty marks something important, I suppose. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe there’s no reward for what I’m doing. Probably just the opposite.  Twenty years. Same town, same walk. The first one could’ve been considered therapeutic. The second and third a bit odd, something I didn’t go out of my way to tell people. Now, it’s just plain lunacy.  Nearly thirteen miles, round trip. Same day, same time. Always in the dark, always in the cold.   The scenery has changed over the years. Houses have been built, new stores erected, old stores torn down. An apartment complex where the soccer fields used to be. Things change, but my walk ...

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