The Distant Summer
"It's a compass, not a Ouija board," Calvin Foley said, but he had already leaned in, and his shadow crossed the brass face so that the needle wavered as if the world had shrugged under it. James Whitmore cupped the little instrument the way his mother cupped a water-damaged novel at the library's annual salvage sale—with grief, with mild contempt, with the urgent hope that no one would see how...
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