The Wistful Mountain
The steam from the kettle hissed like a dying animal, a thin, reedy whine that cut through the heavy, sulfurous air of the boarding house, and I stood there, holding the iron pot, feeling the heat seep into my palms, blistering the skin I had long since stopped caring about. It was the winter of the great strike, the year the coal dust turned the snow to black slush and the men of Ashworth’s...
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