It was a quiet town, and the gentle evening of Midwest springtime had now darkened to starlight, and the newspaper was off to the printers and put to bed for the weekend, and we were all gathered in a booth at Mama Mia's, the men to celebrate surviving another week of fluctuating ad demands, merciless deadlines, and hammering typewriters, and the boy to soak it all in and gorge on the restaurant's delicious garlic bread, baked soft in the middle but with a thick salty crust on top.
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