“I’ll do that thing…” Rubie dangles in front of him, and Trevor is doomed. Put on the device, let it not work, and she’ll do that thing, he tells himself around the alcohol blurred haze of his mind. “Just a couple of years into the future… get us some lotto numbers,” she coos into his ear. Whatever, Trevor thinks, and his mind says to guffaw, but his mouth somehow forms the words, “Why not twenty?” as he spins the dial and punches the ...
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