The signal came in at 6:00 AM, as it always does.
Henry Morales checked the data, logged it, made his coffee. The coffee was the same terrible coffee that the camp had been buying from the same supplier for forty years—dark, bitter, tasting faintly of the tin can it had been cooked in. Henry didn't mind it. He'd been drinking it since 1992, and the taste had become part of the day, like the wind or the cold or the silence. He was fifty-four...
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