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In the quiet of the night, long-haul trucks disappear into the darkness like ghost ships vanishing beyond the horizon. Their headlights shrink, taillights fade, and the highway swallows them whole. Most of these trucks reach their destinations, as planned. Some, however, don’t. And when a vehicle the size of a small house simply vanishes, it leaves behind an unsettling question that never fully goes away: how does something so enormous just cease to exist without a trace?
In the summer of 1987, Raymond Hoffman was a man you didn’t worry about. He was middle-aged, dependable, the kind of driver dispatchers trusted implicitly because he was known for his consistency and care. He wasn’t flashy, reckless, or known to cause problems. He didn’t pick fights at truck stops or chase risky side gigs. He did his job—ran his routes, logged his miles, and delivered his loads on time before returning home. Fellow truckers respected him for his kindness, always willing to help if another driver was stranded or in need of assistance. His reliability and steady nature were his hallmark.
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