The Wistful Mountain
You are looking for the coat. You tell yourself it is a matter of procedure, a detail of the case, but your fingers itch against the wool of your own jacket, a phantom sensation of roughness that is not there. The wind off the lake is biting, stripping the warmth from your bones, and you know you should go back to the hotel. The hotel is warm. The hotel has the phone. The hotel has the man...
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