The Pale Path
I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. The dream was gone, but the weight of it remained. It pressed on my chest, a cold stone. We were in the coal town of Barrow, Pennsylvania. The air was thick. It tasted of sulfur and wet ash. I stood on the ridge above the mine. The sky was the color of a bruise. Purple. Swollen. "You're late, Jack," the man said. He stood in the shadows of a timber...
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