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still in the cooler."
He didn't look at them as he spoke; he kept his eyes on the hole in the
ground. Just in case.
Thorsen grunted out something, probably a thank you, "Welcome home, neighbor,"
Arnie Selmo said.
Author's Note
Anybody with a decent road atlas can follow the directions in Chapter One and
find that I've placed the fictional town of
Hardwood, North Dakota, pretty much squarely on top of the very real town of
Northwood, North Dakota, where I lived for several years, some thirty years
ago, when my father was one of the two town doctors. In fact, I shuffled the
town around some to put the fictional Thorsen house very near to where my
boyhood friend Jeff Thompson's house was.
Anybody with a Northwood phone book, or any phone book from that part of North
Dakota, will discover many people with names like Selmo and Bjerke and
Thompson and Larsen and such. Those names are common in that part of the
world; any similarities between the Selmos and Bjerkes and Thompsons and
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Larsens and so forth of any real towns in North Dakota (or anywhere else) and
those of my fictional town are entirely coincidental and unintentional with
the exception of the late John
Honistead, the retired town cop of fictional Hardwood, who actually was a
handyman in Northwood and was, to the best of my
memory, the first friend of mine who ever died.
I figure old John wouldn't mind.
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