He likes it out here because it’s quiet, serene, just him and 6,000 tombstones and a curious breeze that never sways the trees. He passes through the cemetery methodically, pausing at each stone. This one reads “ANDER-SON. Boyd and Ruth.”

Boyd died in 1974, Ruth might still be alive. The dash after her birth date hangs there like a paused thought. He brushes grass off the marker and pulls out his digital camera.

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