My Husband Said the Funeral Van Would Take Me to a Clinic—Then a Loose White Cord Gave Me a Chance to Get Out
The road was wet, and the reflected headlights kept changing shape.
We passed the sign for the municipal building.
Arthur did not take the hospital turn.
“The clinic is on Cherry Street,” I said.
“We’ve passed it.”
“There is construction,” David answered quickly.
“A detour.”
Arthur kept driving.
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