The Golden Farce
The rust in the patrol truck’s cab has eaten through the seatbelt anchor, so you hold the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles white against the cold metal, as the vehicle shudders along the eroded boundary line. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border warden with twenty years of service, and the only thing separating you from the northern outpost is the fading, mist-shrouded strip of...
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