The November wind was howling across the desolate rural Ohio plains the day I finally killed the engine of my postal truck and asked Silas the question that had been eating away at me for weeks.
I was twenty-three years old, fresh out of training, and constantly stressed to the breaking point about keeping my delivery times down. The world felt like a treadmill that was moving just a bit too fast for me to catch my balance. Route 404 was long, winding, and completely isolated—a stretch of road that modern society seemed to have forgotten.
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