The Pale Mist
The bread broke with a sound like a small bone snapping, a dry, brittle fracture that echoed in the sterile silence of the infirmary ward where the air smelled of boiled wool and antiseptic. It was a thick slice of white loaf, stale at the edges, and Thomas held it in his left hand while his right remained clutched tight against his side, where the ribcage had been cracked by the iron bar...
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