Red and blue sirens lit the night like a solar flare. There were at least thirty of us digging.
The bastard is taunting me. His latest letter read: Detective Briggs, he’s in nostalgic dirt where the dinosaurs roam. Better hurry before he goes extinct.
My childhood playground, once filled with wonderful memories, was now a war zone of holes and chaos. The boy had to be here.
I stomped the shovel’s kickplate, driving it deeper into the soggy ground beneath the stegosaurus-themed slide.
Thud.
“Shit! Over here!”
I pried the lid off the wooden box praying he was still alive.
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alt="Denied by J.B. Corso"
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alt="Winter Feast by Pauline Yates"
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