The Faded Portrait
The fog did not roll in from the west as the almanac predicted, but seeped up from the valley floor like a slow exhalation of rot, clinging to the tires of the patrol vehicle and settling into the fabric of Elias Thorne’s uniform with a weight that had nothing to do with humidity. Elias, forty-five years old and twenty-two of those spent tracing the jagged spine of the border in this remote,...
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