The Distant Joke
The salt air tasted of rust and old copper. It sat heavy on the tongue, a metallic film that refused to wash away. Silas did not wipe his lips. He let the taste remain. It was the only thing that felt real. The highway stretched out before him, a gray ribbon unspooling into the fog. His truck, a battered Ford with a dented fender, hummed with a low, arrhythmic vibration. It was a sound like a...
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