The Distant Nightmare
The bullet took my left hand at the knuckle, not the bone, but the pain was a white, screaming light that erased the rest of the world. I remember the smell of cordite and wet wool, the way the rain had turned the cobblestones of Miller’s Row into slick mirrors reflecting the gas lamps, and I remember the face of the boy who fired it. He was standing in the doorway of the bakery, his hands...
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