The Distant Ghost
The wrench in your hand is cold, a strip of steel that bites into the palm where the leather grip has worn thin, and you are tightening the final bolt on the inspection panel of St. Jude’s Bridge before the city’s demolition crew arrives to tear it down. The rain is not falling so much as being driven sideways by a wind that smells of wet iron and diesel, a force that makes every movement a...
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