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6 H u ffer s The candy aisle smells like gasoline. In the discount grocery, two men in white tank tops hold court in front of the lollipops, debating which sweets little girls like best these days. They pick up a bag and study both sides as if it holds some secret that might seep out from behind the white bubble letters. It’s banal, I know, to portray them this way: these two men who, for all we know, have committed no crime besides being stoned and having a sweet tooth (and maybe not even that), and anyway, the evening news said the abductor was a single man: a middle-aged smoker in a white sedan with a red pinstripe along the driver-side door, and perhaps around the entire car, but you know how an early summer morning in the Berkshires feels when you’re sixteen in white sneakers wet with dew, engaged in some mindless task, like checking the first aid kit before the crowds arrive. The sun so low in the sky. You wish you could stick out your hand and stop it right there. ...

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