The Distant Clue
The morning air tasted of iron and dust as the truck idled in the yard, its engine a low, guttural groan that vibrated through the soles of your boots, and you stood there with your hands still trembling, the faint, coppery scent of blood clinging to your knuckles even after you had scrubbed them raw with the pump soap. Your father, a man whose spine had curved into a permanent question mark...
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