Dave Patterson

A Winter Storm

Salsa Steve stood beneath a spotlight fashioned from an old baked bean can and a car headlight. His fat cheeks and Budweiser gut glowed beneath the incandescent light. It was a Thursday, payday at the paper mill, and Stu�s was packed with bearded men from the mill and surrounding farms.
  Through the dusty windows I saw the snow falling hard under a streetlight. On the television above the bar, a channel six weatherman with a crew cut pointed to a green form moving over the state. A banner flashed across the bottom of the screen warning of two feet of snow by morning, possibly more. I couldn�t hear the guy�s words because Salsa Steve had just reached the chorus of �Don�t Stop Believing.� That was his song. He sang it every Thursday at karaoke.
  Maine outlawed smoking in bars, but Stu still let the guys smoke their Pall Malls, and that night the air was thick with smoke.
  I sat alone at a table in the back corner, sipping bottled beer and reading a paperback. I planned on leaving at eleven so I wouldn�t be hungover for work.
  When Salsa Steve finished the song, the mill guys clapped. Their applause was half sincere and half ironic. Steve drove Little River�s one taxi, and if you pissed him off, he wouldn�t give you a ride, even if you were drunk.
  �Go run your truck into a ditch, dickface,� he said to Ron last week. Ron had asked for a ride, then in front of everyone told Steve he had to promise not to sing. That night Ron hit a tree, got arrested for drunk driving, and broke a row of ribs.
  �Nice work,� I said to Steve as he walked by my table headed to the bathroom.
  �Thanks, Reindeer,� he said.
  An older woman in a pink tank top and tight jeans took the stage beneath the tin can spotlight.
  I earned the nickname Reindeer because in high school I�d stolen one of those electric, rotating reindeer off a cop�s lawn. I took the reindeer and a hundred feet of extension cords and ran it all up the brick wall of the mill. The only problem: I was able to climb to the top of the building, but I didn�t have a plan to get down. In the morning, the cops�including the one I stole the reindeer from�found me nearly frozen to death, curled up next to a reindeer lit by Christmas lights slowly moving its head back and forth.
  The front door of the bar swung open and a gust of snow blew into the room. Someone yelled, �Shut the damn door!� The guy who walked in used both arms to latch the door shut. On the silent television screen, the weatherman was back. Beneath him, a red-lettered warning flashed cancellations that were already being announced for Friday. �Maybe the mill will close,� Charlie said at the bar.
  �Not a chance,� Salsa Steve said, holding up a hand to get Stu�s attention. �They haven�t closed the mill since the �98 ice storm.�
  The woman in the pink tank top�she was probably forty, though she looked older�struggled to get through the first verse of �I Will Survive.� When the karaoke singers started getting drunk, it was my sign to leave. Outside, the snow barrelled down under the orange street light; I decided to stay for one more. Stu came over and asked if I was ready to settle up. I told him to bring me another one. Stu�s six-six, maybe six-seven. There were rumors the Celtics drafted him in his senior year of high school.
  �Don�t blame you, Reindeer,� he said. �This isn�t the kind of night to be sober.� He took my empty bottle and came back with a full one.
  The woman under the spotlight finished her song and nearly fell off the lip of the stage. She leaned against the wall and knocked down an old tin beer sign. No one moved to help her. When she reached the bar, she looked around for Stu, hoping to get another beer before she was cut off, though Stu rarely cut any of us off.
  Charlie positioned the microphone in his hand as a bass drum four-count sounded through the speakers. He played air fiddle to �Devil Went Down to Georgia� and eyed the woman in the pink tank top. She winked at him, and he moved his arms faster over his imaginary fiddle.
  The man who had walked into the bar minutes before moved toward the bathroom, looking down at me when he walked by. He had a shaved head and didn�t seem to have any eyebrows.
  He lifted his chin towards me before pushing through the bathroom door.
  I finished my beer and reached for my wallet. My truck�s four-wheel drive had been giving me problems, and I wanted to leave before the roads became impassable, if they hadn�t already.
  I counted a stack of ones, and the man with the bald head sat at my table. �You Phil�s brother?� he asked.
  �Yeah,� I said.
  �You remember me?� He moved his head from side to side to give me full view of his acne scars and narrow chin.
  �You were friends with my brother?� I said, beginning to recognize him.
  �Yeah, it�s Alex. Me and Phil played hockey together.�
  I nodded. �Alex Blanchette, that�s right.� I offered my hand, and he shook it with a hard grip.
  �Let me buy you a beer,� he said, and before I could protest, he waved Stu down and asked for a couple bottles of Bud. He motioned at the money I was holding. �I�ll pay your tab.� Then he added, �I mean, you�re �Phil�s brother.�
  Salsa Steve sang �Endless Love� with the woman in the pink tank top. She was a beat behind Steve. Her long fingers pulled at his suspenders as they sang.
  �You still live around here?� Alex asked. �I figured you�d be in college.�
  I scratched at my beer label and watched the snow fall outside. �I have an apartment in town and work at the mill,� I said.
  �I always remember you as being smart.� He stared at me intently, so I looked out the window imagining the snow piling up so high that it entombed Stu�s restaurant and karaoke bar.
  He drank from his beer and said, �Listen, I need a hand with something. Your brother used to help me with this kind of job. Come for a ride, and I�ll give you some cash.�
  �I got to get going,� I said, finishing my beer and waving to Stu. I reached for my wallet, but Alex waved me off again. He handed Stu a fifty.
  �Just ride with me for a half hour�hour tops�and you�ll make a hundred bucks. Like I said, your brother used to help me.�
  On the stage, instead of singing the last chorus of �Endless Love,� Salsa Steve and the woman were tongue kissing�the woman had to lean over Steve�s belly. To the side of the stage, Charlie glared in their direction.
  �I need to get home,� I said to Alex, keeping my eyes on Charlie, who held his eyes on Steve and the woman. When the last note of the song played through the speakers, Charlie lunged at Steve, knocking him down. The guys at the bar stood from their stools and ran to the stage�some trying to separate the two, others throwing punches to get in blows from past fights.
  Alex slapped my arm and said, �Come on. Let�s get out of here.� He motioned his bald head towards the door.
  I considered the tangle of bodies. Stu threw men from the pile by their shirt collars. Just as quickly, they charged back to the fight. He yelled for someone to call the cops. I nodded to Alex, and we headed out of the bar.
  Snow was halfway up to our knees in the parking lot.
  �I�ll give you a ride back when we�re done,� Alex said when he saw me staring at my truck. It was covered by a foot of snow. The snow came down at an angle, stinging my face.
  �Get in,� Alex said.
  The car slid on the road as Alex put a Grateful Dead CD in the stereo and reached back for beers�one for me and one for him. It wasn�t a car made for the snow: it was two-wheel drive and sat low to the ground.
  �So you didn�t go to college?� Alex asked. �Phil used to talk about you all the time. Called you the smarter brother.�
  �What�s this mission all about anyway?�
  �And now you�re working at the fucking mill?� He placed his beer between his legs and downshifted to control the back end of the car.
  �Where�s this place we�re going to?�
  �You�ll see.� He leaned forward and squinted to make out the road through the falling snow. The way the snow streaked towards the windshield, it looked like we were travelling through outer space at light speed. When we were kids, Phil used to say, �It looks like we�re in the Millennium Falcon.�
  After fifteen minutes, we pulled into a trailer park. No plow truck had cleared the trailer park roads, so Alex had to down shift and gun the engine to get us through. Finally, we came to a stop in front of a yellow trailer. �This�ll be quick. Then on to phase two.�
  �Phil used to do this?� I asked.
  Alex laughed, leaning his head against the steering wheel and holding his stomach. �You didn�t really know your brother, did you?�
  I opened the door and got out of the car. The wind and snow drove at my face.
  He knocked three times and opened the front door, not waiting for an answer. Inside, the place was bright from fluorescent ceiling lights. All the shades were pulled down. Open cereal boxes and half-filled milk containers covered the counters. Two teenage boys played video games. Neither of them looked up when we walked in.
  �Where�s your dad?� Alex said to the boys.
  The older looking one pointed down the hallway. Alex disappeared behind a bedroom door.
  On the television screen, lifelike army men shot at each other. Every so often, an army man fell, and one of the boys cheered and punched the other in the shoulder. They didn�t speak to me. I questioned my decision to ride along with Alex when he came out of the room, promptly shutting the door behind him. He walked by the two boys and pointed at the front door.
  �What was that all about?� I asked when we were back in the car.
  �Just a quick stop,� he said, letting the clutch out quickly, giving us enough momentum to get the car rolling in the snow. �Listen, call in sick tomorrow, and I�ll give you five hundred bucks if you make all my stops. Something big�s come up.� He turned to look at me. �Jesus, you look just like Phil. It�s like riding with a ghost.�
  I hadn�t called in sick during the two years I�d worked at the paper mill, and most likely the next day would be slow in the shipping department because of the snow. �I�ll stick around for a while, but you have to bring me back to my truck at some point,� I said. A plow truck drove toward us. Alex jerked the steering wheel to avoid a collision. He yanked the wheel again and righted the car after the plow passed.
  �Your parents must have been pissed you didn�t go to college. Phil talked about how you were the only hope since he was such a fuck up.�
  �He wasn�t a fuck up,� I said.
  �Easy. I didn�t think he was a fuck up, Reindeer. It�s what he said your parents thought about him.�
  �So what was that stop all about?� I said.
  �Just a small package at the first stop.� He patted his jacket pocket. �Then we go on to the bigger stuff.�
  We drove another twenty minutes without speaking. Alex worked the stick shift and leaned over the steering wheel to maneuver around snowdrifts. Every so often, he looked at me without speaking.
  At the end of a dirt road, we reached a large farm I�d never seen before. I was surprised there could be a farm in Little River that I didn�t know about. The driveway to the farm was cleared of snow, and Alex drove easily by the barn and fields. The only light in the farmhouse was over the kitchen table where, through the snowfall, I was able to make out two figures.
  �These guys are going to go crazy when they see you,� Alex said.
  I followed him to the front steps. Without knocking, he pushed open the door.
  In the kitchen, a man and woman my parents� age sat at the table playing cribbage. A wood stove crackled. The dry heat warmed my face and hands.
  �Alex,� the man said without looking at us. He laid down his cards and slapped the table. The woman sighed, dropping her cards as the man moved his pegs to the end of the cribbage board.
  �He�s going to be unreasonable tonight,� the woman laughed. She had black hair down past her shoulders, and she was attractive for her age. When she looked up from the cribbage board, she screamed.
  The man looked at me, and his eyes widened.
  �I know, right,� Alex said, pushing me toward the light. �Doesn�t he look just like Phil?�
  The man and the woman stood. �Who is this?� the man finally asked.
  �It�s Phil�s little brother. People in Little River call him Reindeer. I saw him down at Stu�s and had to bring him along for the night.�
  �He looks just like Phil�thinner and shorter�but�,� the woman said. She laughed, covering her crooked teeth with her hand.
  �Scared the shit out of me,� the man said. He brushed his hands through his white hair.
  I nodded and held out my hand. He shook it and said his name was Marty and his wife�s name was Louise. I moved to shake Louise�s hand, but she hugged me. I hesitated before hugging her back.
  Alex started laughing, and the other two joined in shaking their heads. Louise let me go and took a step back.
  �You boys want a beer?� Marty asked. �I could use one after that scare.� He took three beers from the fridge and pried the lids off with a cast iron bottle opener.
  �Can we get down to it?� Alex said after drinking from his bottle.
  �I�m just trying to get used to seeing Phil�s face in my house again,� Marty said, patting me on the arm.
  I drank from my bottle.
  �I�m sorry for all this,� Louise said to me. �We were good friends of your brother�s. He lived with us for a while.�
  �He lived here?� I said, speaking for the first time since we arrived.
  My voice must have signalled my discomfort because the woman apologized again and told Alex and Marty to get moving so we could get back on the road.
  Marty set down his beer, and we followed him to a cellar door off the kitchen. �We got a few pounds from Ontario and a couple more from New Brunswick. We should have had more, but there was a bust somewhere by the border. We�ll have to make do.� Marty flipped a light switch at the bottom of the stairs and two rows of fluorescent lights flickered on. There was a long metal table that was the length of the basement on which were maybe fifteen bricks of weed. I stood at the foot of the stairs without moving while Alex inspected a plastic-wrapped brick.
  Marty pointed at me and said to Alex, �Is he cool?�
  Alex looked up from the brick he was sniffing and said, �Reindeer�s cool. Phil used to do this, remember?�
  I nodded. �I�m cool,� I said and walked to the table. The basement was cold; I rubbed my hands together for warmth. I tried to imagine my brother in this dirt-floor basement sniffing bricks of weed beneath industrial fluorescent lights while a snowstorm covered the earth.
  Marty started shoving the bricks into a grey duffel bag with the words Little River High School Hockey written on the side�it looked like one Phil used to own. Marty gave Alex some names. I recognized a few, though most sounded foreign. When Marty was done with his litany of names and weights, he looked back at me. He smoothed his fingers over his white stubble. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
  �I�ve got something else�something new,� Marty said to Alex. �I�m not sure if tonight�s the right night for this,� he said, nodding his head in my direction.
  �Like I said, don�t worry about Reindeer. He�s cool�I�m telling you. He just wants to make some money tonight and be like his big brother. That�s why he�s here.� He looked at me and smiled, the fluorescent light shone off his freshly shaved scalp.
  �This is big,� Marty said, �but I have to take care of it tonight.� He looked at me. �God, he does look so much like Phil.� He smiled and lines creased across the fault lines of his forehead. �I know he�s Phil�s brother, but I�m not sure you should have brought him here,� he said.
  �Reindeer, tell this guy that you�re cool like Phil,� Alex said.
  �I�m cool like Phil,� I said, not knowing exactly what that meant, though I was beginning to understand.
  �Well, I need to get this out of my house tonight.� Marty led us to a large wooden door on sliders. The wood was brown with age, probably from years of holding a winter�s supply of root vegetables. As we got closer to the door, there was the faint sound of a radio. Marty took keys from his pocket and undid the lock. Using both hands, he slid open the door. Inside, huddled around a space heater, were twelve men. A light hung from the rafters above them. The men squinted and began to speak to us in what sounded like Spanish. Though their words were urgent, none of them made an attempt to leave or come at us. The dirt floor was covered with tattered wool blankets. On the blankets were a few cases of bottled water, jars of peanut butter, and some loaves of Wonder Bread.
  �This is the new shit?� Alex said.
  �It�s a one-time deal. Johnson called to ask if I�d be interested in holding these guys and transporting them to Porter�s chicken farm. He told me they�re use to conditions like this.� While he spoke, the three of us stared at the Mexican men who stared back at us. �Johnson had to get back to New Hampshire, so I said I�d hold them and get them delivered.�
  �You want me to deliver this?� Alex said. The men began speaking at us again when he pointed at the men.
  �I�m giving four hundred a man,� Marty said. �I rented a truck for you. It�ll be fine in this snow. I plowed the driveway, so if you leave soon you won�t have any problem getting to the road.�
  The men stopped speaking. The only sound in the basement was the radio.
  �You in, or do I have to find someone else to take them?� Marty said.
  �Does Louise know about this?�
  �No. We�ll load them out the basement door, and I�ll tell her that you guys had to leave because of the snow, and that�s why you didn�t go up to say goodbye. She�ll be sad she didn�t get to see you again.� Marty put his hand on my shoulder, but I stared at the Mexican men. A man�young, my age, maybe Phil�s age�looked directly at me with his black eyes.
  �We�ll split the money,� Alex said to me. �Phil never even got to do something like this.�
  �I gotta get back to my truck,� I said. The young man stared at me.
  �You crazy?� Alex said. �Stick it out, you�ll make a shit load of money.�
  �Ride with him,� Marty said. He turned me away from the potato locker. �I�ll feel better if I know there�s part of Phil making sure this goes smoothly. You�,� he said, but didn�t finish.
  Marty slid the wooden door closed. The muffled voices of the Mexican men started up. One of them hit the wooden door, making me jump.
  The bulkhead doors groaned at the hinges when Marty pushed them open�snow fell against the cellar stairs. In the yard, cold air scraped against my face. The blurred outline of the metallic moon was visible through the snow and clouds.
  An old U-Haul truck had been backed within ten feet of the house, and a path was cleared from the basement steps to the truck. The snow had also been plowed around the house to allow the truck to get to the driveway. Marty unlocked the back and threw up the door, exposing a bare truck bed. He motioned for Alex to come back down to the basement with him.
  I shoved my hands in my pockets and waited by the truck. I tried to concentrate on the sound of the snow building up around me. Out beyond the field was the black outline of trees.
  The Spanish-speaking men filed up the stairs and clambered into the back of the truck. Alex tossed the wool blankets in with them, and Marty pulled down the door and locked the latch, yanking at it a few times to make sure it was secure.
  �They�ll be fine for a few hours. Drop them off before you make the other stops. We don�t want a truck full of frozen Mexicans,� Marty laughed.
  Alex laughed, too. �What�s the matter, Reindeer, you don�t like frozen Mexican?� he said, and they both laughed again.
  Marty cupped his hand around the flame from his lighter and lit a cigarette. �It was good to see you.� Before I could react, he hugged me. �All right, get out of here,� he said, letting go. I thought he might cry. Without another word, he disappeared into the basement.
  �He really misses Phil,� Alex said.
  I climbed into the passenger�s side of the truck.
  Alex drove the U-Haul around the house on the cleared path. Through the kitchen window, Marty sat at the table with Louise and took a drink from his coffee mug. She said something, and they laughed. Marty shuffled the playing cards as we turned to head down the long driveway.
  �Good people,� Alex said.
  I felt tired. �You know, I should probably get back to my truck. Stu doesn�t like it when people leave their cars in the parking lot when it needs plowing,� I said.
  �You�re kidding. You can�t ditch me now, Reindeer. You heard Marty. We need to get this shipment delivered before it freezes.�
  �Just drop me off at the truck. I don�t need any money.�
  �Hell, you need money�you�re working at the mill. Spend the money on college. That�s what Phil would say. Plus, Phil wouldn�t ditch me.� He stopped talking to let that sink in. �Here,� he said when I didn�t respond. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He counted out a stack of bills while he steered. �Your cut is twenty-four hundred. Take it now. And if you stay after this delivery and make my other stops, you�ll get more. Listen, you hit the jackpot of nights to work for Marty. I know you need the money.�
  Through the darkness of the truck cab, he offered me the cash. Snowflakes hit the windshield. The roads had been salted and sanded, but the plows still couldn�t keep up with the snow. The light from the dashboard made the money and Alex�s bald head glow a soft blue. I grabbed the bills.
  Alex reached for the radio knob, and when he looked back up, he had to jerk the wheel to avoid a snowdrift. In the back of the truck, bodies thumped against the metal sides of the truck bed. Someone pounded on the back of the cab.
  �Jesus,� Alex said.
  �Careful,� I yelled.
  The pounding increased, until the twelve grown men all seemed to pound the meat of their fists against the metal that separated us.
  �We should check on them,� I said.
  �I�ll just slow down. We can�t lose time.�
  �What if one of them is hurt back there?�
  �What are we going to do? We can�t exactly show up to a hospital with a truck full of undocumented Mexicans,� Alex said. His voice was sure. He didn�t yell. �We�ll get them to the farm. After that, it�s not our problem.�
  I leaned my head back. The chaotic pattern continued. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped, and the only sound was the static hum of the radio.
  �You know, after all these years,� Alex started, �I still don�t know why you put that reindeer on top of the mill. I mean, why would you do that?�
  My head still rested against the seat back. I barely caught the question, because I was concentrating on the silence in the back of the truck.
  �Phil never told you?� I opened my eyes. We passed the IGA in the center of town�the skeletons of shopping carts and abandoned cars stuck out of the snow. �The guy I stole the reindeer from was a cop who picked up Phil for drunk driving and possession charges. Because of Phil�s record, it went to court. I skipped school and drove to Portland for the hearing. The judge did most of the talking, telling Phil he needed to stop getting in trouble. When the arresting cop stood to talk, he told my brother that he was white trash. He said that the town would be better if guys like Phil were in jail. Before he sat down he said, �The best thing for the world would be if you were dead.�� I stopped talking.
  The metal echo of one man banging in the truck bed broke the silence. The effort lasted only a few moments before it died down.
  �So you went and stole the cop�s reindeer, put it on top of the mill, and almost froze to death?� Alex said. He began laughing. The thrumming started behind me once more, this time they were quick hits. �Why did that seem like a good idea?�
  �I don�t know. I was young,� I said. �It was the only thing I could think to do. We should check on them back there.�
  �This guy tells your brother the world�s better off with him dead,� Alex said, holding his stomach, �and you steal his reindeer? That�s how you got that nickname?�
  More fists met metal behind us. So many fists came up against the sheet metal that the truck vibrated. �Pull over,� I said. �Something�s wrong back there.�
  �You tried to get the cop back by stealing his reindeer and placing it on top of the fucking mill?� His palm slapped the black steering wheel.
  The pounding behind us continued.
  �Pull over!� I reached for the wheel, but before I could grab it, a car coming in the other direction swerved, spun twice, and collided with the front of our truck. Metal crunched. Alex moaned. I snapped forward against my seatbelt. Bodies in the truck bed thudded against the walls. A hiss of smoke came from either our truck or the car we hit.
  The seatbelt dug into my chest. I had to catch my breath before I could move. As I unbuckled, I saw Alex holding his forehead. He groaned and removed his hand. Through the blue light of the dashboard, I saw a puddle of blood in his palm. More blood spread over his forehead from a gash. He mumbled words I couldn�t make out. The men began hitting the bed of the truck again. This time with less force, as if they were slapping any part of the truck they could reach�the back door, the sides, the floor.
  I pulled the keys from the ignition. Snow covered me as I pushed open the passenger door. I approached the car that hit us and saw Salsa Steve in the driver�s seat of his taxi, the woman from the bar with the pink tank top sat beside him, her head in his lap. Neither of them moved. When I opened the driver�s side door, Steve mumbled for me to call an ambulance. He petted the woman�s head and slurred, �Baby, baby, baby.� One of his eyes was black and blue from his fight with Charlie.
  I grabbed Steve�s phone off the floor beneath the gas pedal. I couldn�t tell if the woman was breathing.
  Salt and dirt crunched under my boots as I walked to the back of the U-Haul. I put my ear to the metal door and listened. When I heard nothing, I unlocked the latch and pushed up the sliding door. The men inside began speaking in Spanish when they saw me. I could only make out a few faces. Two of the men were flat on their backs. One man held his leg and cried. Three of the men rushed towards the back of the truck and leapt over me. I thought they might try to fight me. Instead, they continued to the field along the road making lines in the snow as they ran away. More men landed next to me and followed the others across the field. Soon there were lines of tracks across the snow, crisscrossing and coming back on each other like the tracks of deer as they scatter after the boom of a gunshot.
  The remaining men writhed in the truck bed. One man spoke quickly, as if in prayer. I called to the man closest to me, waving my hand. He slid his body towards the edge of the truck bed. He cupped his crumpled forearm and spoke words in Spanish I didn�t understand.
  �Shut up!� I yelled. My head pounded. Words continued to spill from his mouth. I was breathing hard. I pulled out the money Alex had given me and counted ten one hundred dollar bills and handed them to the man, placing the remaining bills back in my pocket. He took the money with his good hand and continued speaking in the same way he had before, pointing into the darkness of the truck bed.
  I stepped away from the truck and called for an ambulance with Steve�s phone. I told the dispatcher I�d seen an accident and people were injured. I walked over to Steve�s door and dropped the phone back under his feet. He was unconscious, but still breathing. His hand rested on the woman�s face. I couldn�t tell if she was breathing.
  Through the falling snow, I saw Alex move his head slowly against the steering wheel. I opened the passenger door of the U-Haul and slid the key back in the ignition.
  We were two miles from town, maybe less. Without looking at the remaining men in the U-Haul, I began running in the direction of Stu�s and my truck. My feet slipped on the road. If a car came, I told myself I�d jump in the ditch and wait for it to pass. I heard the sound of sirens behind me.
  As I ran, I thought of a game Phil and I played when we were kids. We�d sprint from telephone pole to telephone pole along the back roads of town. The first person to reach the pole would smack the wood in celebration. Phil always won, but it never bothered me. I just loved the slap of our sneakers against the pavement, the panting of our breath when we�d reach a pole, and the way Phil flipped his hair out of his eyes by tossing his neck back before squinting up towards the sun and yelling, �Go!�

Dave Patterson

DAVE PATTERSON is from Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He attended the Bread Loaf School of English where he won first place in the Freeman Fiction Writing Contest. He is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA program in Creative Writing. His work has appeared in The Apple Valley Review, Clare Literary Magazine, and Hot Metal Bridge, among other literary magazines. For more information, visit

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