The Rusty Pick

I am screwed unless I find Maddie. My gaze swept the alley, searching for any sign, any clue. Then, a glint of metal caught my eye—a discarded burner phone near a dumpster.

"Maddie?" I whispered, scooping it up. A text message flashed on the screen, a single coordinate and a name: Rusty Pick. —M.

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