The Wistful Dinner
The mud took my boots. It took them deep. I felt the cold seep up, a wet, living thing, pressing against my ankles. I was a man of the law. Or I had been. The badge was gone. It had fallen off in the ditch, swallowed by the black water and the silt. I did not look back. To look back was to admit I was still looking for it. I was not looking. I was running. The fog was thick. It tasted of iron...
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