The Wistful Mirror
The rain on the windshield of the rusted-out Ford F-150 did not fall so much as it smeared itself across the glass, a viscous, grey paste that blurred the world into a watercolor of dead trees and muddy ditches, and Elias Thorne, whose hands had not trembled since he was twenty-four but whose spine had begun to creak like a door left open in a draft for too long, drove with a ferocity that was...
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