The Pale Bonsai
The rain does not fall so much as it is erased from the air, a vertical deletion that turns the highway into a gray smear of light and wet asphalt, and you are driving north toward the decommissioned facility in the Scottish Highlands with the heater blasting a hot, stale wind that smells of diesel and old wool, your hands white-knuckled on the wheel, your knuckles cracking like dry twigs,...
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