The Distance Between Tides
Tom Callahan stood on the dock at dawn, his breath clouding in the salt air, and watched the surface of the bay. The water was flat and gray, the color of old pewter, and it told him nothing. But that was all right. He had learned to read what the water did not say. He was forty-two years old and had spent eighteen of those years on this stretch of Long Island coastline, pulling stranded...
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