When the bell sounded from the Tally tower, Elias Wray stood in the yard of his own house with his pack belted and his hands already gone stiff inside the cold, and he understood, with the plain certainty of a man who has just heard the last word of a long sentence read aloud in a room full of strange chairs, that he had already become the kind of man who leaves, and that becoming had happened...
You had been riding since the first smudged grey of morning, through the coal towns where the children came to the fences with faces like crumpled letters, through the fields of bitter ragweed that grew in the shadow of the Number Four mill, and up onto the high moors where the wind carried the taste of iron even out of sight of the city, and by the time the sun rode small and white above the...
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