The Distant Promise
The iron gates of the Whitmore Correctional Facility for Juvenile Offenders did not creak so much as they groaned, a low, tectonic complaint that seemed to rise from the very bedrock of the Appalachian foothills, a sound that had become so intrinsic to the rhythm of our lives that we no longer heard it as noise but as a kind of second heartbeat, steady and heavy and inescapable. I stood in the...
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