The Wistful Atlas
The rain is not falling; it is being driven into the earth by a wind that smells of wet rust and diesel, and you are standing on the shoulder of Interstate 80, the white line blurring beneath your boots as the headlights of a passing semi cut a jagged, temporary eye in the darkness. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, and you are trying to remember if you are afraid, but the question feels abstract,...
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