by Peter Schmidtke
The wind gusts stronger along Bremen Street, past the Riverwest Tavern on Auer Avenue. That’s because it knows it has three acres to gather steam. It’s not a UFO landing field, but it might as well be. A chain-linked fence with prickly barbed wire rings the perimeter, and a dozen or more padlocked monitoring wells protrude from stubbly yellow grass like rusty periscopes from stalled submarines.
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