The Pale Fracture
The bus leaves at six. You know this. You have always known this. The engine hums a low, sick note against the glass. You sit by the window. Your hands are folded in your lap. They are shaking. You do not stop them. Outside, the rain falls on the town of Oakhaven. It is a gray wash. The houses bleed water down their siding. You watch a dog run past. It is brown. It is small. It does not look at...
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