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Dead Man's Hand, Act I

A lipstick-red, six-cylinder bullet streaks through the Nevada desert. Wind rips through the driver’s hair as she dances in her seat, oblivious to the baleful sun. Her left hand beats the wheel like a drum; her gloved right hand sits lifelessly at her side. A needle on the dashboard climbs slowly into the red as steam begins to seep from the convertible’s hood.