The wipers on the red truck, the one John Walther lowered his head to examine, are barely thicker than a strand of hair and permanently frozen in motion.
In the low-ceiling basement of St. John’s Episcopal Church, men and women are doing everyday things — driving cars, rowing a boat or attending a funeral — except they’re an inch and a half tall, plastic and live in a fabricated world that exists to serve as a backdrop for a massive model rail line.
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