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My name is Clara James. I’m 32 years old, and until one unforgettable Tuesday, I lived most of my life quietly, blending into the background of Ridgefield, Kentucky — the kind of small town where time seems to move slower, and people carry their worries like extra weight in their pockets.
I worked as a waitress at Billy’s Diner, a modest place with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted stronger than the economy supporting our town.
After the local manufacturing plant closed years ago, the heart of Ridgefield slowed. Main Street’s faded signs…
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