The Indiana heat sits heavy on the trailer park, thick and unmoving, like a blanket that's been left out in the summer sun too long. It's the kind of late afternoon where the air shimmers above the asphalt, and the only sounds are the distant hum of a window unit struggling to keep up and the occasional bark of a dog chained to a porch. The trailers here are packed close together, their aluminum siding gleaming harshly in the golden light, everything worn and faded and just a little bit tired.
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