The Iron Boundary of Oak Ridge Lane and the Silence of Stamped Paper
CHAPTER 1: THE DRIVEWAY THRESHOLD The low, rhythmic thud of the diesel engine had barely settled into the driveway pavement before the pink sweatshirt crossed the yellow tape. Artie Miller did not shift his feet. He kept his steel-toed boots planted two inches inside the chain-link gate boundary, his hands resting low across his belt…