The Distant Summer
The mud sucked at his boots with a wet, tearing sound. Rain hammered the tin roof of the transport, a relentless, deafening drumming that blurred the line between the sky and the earth. Thomas Whitmore stood in the back, his rifle slung low, his eyes fixed on the grey smear of the horizon. He was twenty-four. He had been twenty-four for six months, though he felt older, hollowed out like a...
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