“Who goes there?”
“Joseph Raymond Winston. From Plainfield. I’ve got a woman and three kids with me. Guns and ammunition, some canned food. Some of it’s probably still good.”
The voice answered, “Hold on,” and then after a moment, it was replaced by another, more familiar: “Joe Winston? Take a step back.”
He did, light shining in his eyes.
“Yeah that’s him. I can vouch for him. He’s old, though. Sixty, maybe. Hey Joe, how old are you?”
“I’m sixty-two. My daughter’s thirty-seven, her kids ten and twelve.”
After a long pause, the gate creaked open. He finally breathed normally.
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