The Gift of the Cursed
The heat in Mississippi doesn't just sit on you—it presses, like a hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you forward into whatever comes next. Eli Whitmore had lived with that pressure for twenty-four years, ever since he was old enough to notice that his left arm hurt before people died. It wasn't a sharp pain. It was a deep, burning ache, like his bones had been filled with hot coals. It...
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