The Last Jump
I. He walked to the sandpit every evening at dusk, and I watched him from the kitchen window with my dish towel still damp in my hands. Elias Beauregard III—third of his name, last of his line—would approach the pit with the slow, halting gait of a man whose left leg had forgotten how to bear weight properly. He stopped at the edge, turned to face the empty field, and began his run-up: three...
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