“You never did answer me that one time,” Rust says, checking his gun on his belt before tucking his notebook up under one arm. His cigarette’s down to its last leg and he sucks hard enough on the filter that it squeaks between his lips. “Bout what?” Marty murmurs, looking down his nose to fumble with the zipper on his windbreaker again. Rust squints ahead into the forest even though the sun isn’t bright here, pressing his lips into a thin line. “About whether or not you believe in ghosts.”
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