Winter 1958 • Vol. XX No. 1 Fiction |

The Season’s Dying

He saw the diner while it was yet a good distance away, set boxlike beside the highway upon the harsh open land. "Thank God," he said. He spoke to himself, the car filled only with the cartons of stock for which there was no room in the trunk. At the beginning of each trip he had to pile the extra stock on the floor and on the back seat almost up to the windows, through which could be read the names of the various drugs the cartons held. He had been driving for four hours without pause. He was hungry. He had been hungry for the past hour but there had been no suitable place at which to eat, no town or city large enough. Now he could wait no longer. "I'll get something at the next joint I come to, the heck with what it looks like," he had promised himself. Then he had seen the diner. The land fled past, the rock-studded earth, the scrub flattened by wind, shriveled by violent sun. Away off in the distance, ominous as mounting clouds, a line of mountains stood darkly along the horizon

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