Tucked off a country highway in central Ohio, the Wash & Fold on Sandusky Pike stayed open all night for the truckers and the night-shift nurses. I stopped there just past two in the morning, November of 2009, because I needed a few quarters and a half-hour of fluorescent light. The place was empty except for the machines and a folded sweater on bench three. The sweater didn't move. It was still there when I came back from the bathroom. Still there when my load finished. When I finally touched it, the wool was warm, and inside the pocket was a receipt dated five years before, with a name I recognized from a missing-persons report I'd read the week before. The dryer kept tumbling long after I left. I didn't look back.

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