The Wistful Incense
The road to the northern border was not paved, but packed with the heavy, wet clay of late autumn. It was a ribbon of mud that swallowed the tires of my truck inch by inch, dragging the vehicle forward with a grinding, mechanical protest. I had been a border agent for twenty years, a functionary of the line, a keeper of the threshold. My job was simple, or so the manual claimed. You stop the...
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