The Pale Banner
The sound was not a crack, but a wet, organic pop, like a knuckle popping inside a skull. It came from the left side of Elias Thorne’s mouth, specifically from the molars that had held the world’s weight for forty years. He was standing in the center of the Nevada desert, where the sagebrush was dead and the sky was a bruised purple, and he felt the tooth come loose. It did not fall. It hung...
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