The Distant Joke
The sky over Miller’s Creek did not break; it tore. It was a sound like the world splitting its own spine, a wet, tearing crack that preceded the rain by only a fraction of a second. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the muddy main street, his boots sinking into the churned earth, and he did not look up. He looked at his hands. They were steady. They had to be steady. In his right hand, he...
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