Dust and Silver
The dust came first. It came like a wall, gray and endless, rolling across the Oklahoma plains with the slow, inevitable power of a judgment no man can escape. Frank Davis stood beside his truck on Route 66 and watched it come and felt it settle on his tongue and in his eyes and in the space between his ribs where his lungs used to be clear. His truck was a 1937 Chevrolet, held together by wire...
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