The Wistful Skyline
The iron taste of blood is the first thing you remember, sharper than the cold, more persistent than the ache in your bruised ribs. You are on your knees in the mud of the Blackwater Valley, the rain a slat of grey needles driving into the back of your neck, and you are holding the tin can with the ferocity of a man holding his own spine together. It is a ration tin. Standard issue. Inside,...
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