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Summary
He is standing by the side of the road, hands deep in his pockets, everlasting frown on his face. Same pointy nose, pale stormy eyes, and scruffy blonde hair ruffled by the wind as Bill looks down the stretching asphalt of the highway cutting straight through the desert like a wound, and Anthony thinks, there he is, same old sorry bugger I first fell in love with in Scotland.
California, 1950.