The Distant Summer
The air in the valley of the Iron Creek always tasted of copper and cold dust, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled deep in the lungs, a pervasive industrial haze that blurred the horizon where the smokestacks of the Ashworth Foundry pierced the low, bruised sky. Thomas Whitmore, a boy of twelve with eyes the color of polished slate and hands that were perpetually...
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