The Golden Visit
Thorne. The name hung in the air, heavy and wet, like a dropped towel. Elias did not look up from the desk. He kept his eyes on the brass compass, the metal cold and slick in his palm, the glass face cracked down the center. The office was sealed, the blinds drawn, the hum of the ventilation unit a low, constant drone that seemed to vibrate in his teeth. He was a border patrol agent, twelve...
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