The Faded River
You’re late. The rain did not fall so much as it pressed, a wet, heavy hand against the back of Elias’s neck. He stood in the churned mud of the ridge, forty-five years old and feeling every single one of them, the tremor in his right hand making the leather of his father’s duster ripple like a trapped bird. He had walked six miles to get here, the boots he’d worn for the border patrol now...
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