The Distant Threshold
The train shook my bones. I held the strap. My knuckles were white. "Get off," I said. "Where?" "Somewhere." The man looked at me. He was young. He had a face like wet clay. He smelled of coal dust and fear. I looked away. I looked at the window. The trees blurred into a gray smear. I am a soldier. Or I was. That word is too big now. It is a heavy coat I no longer fit into. I am just Thomas....
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