The Pale Mist
The mist on the high desert was not a weather event but a physical weight, a grey wool pressed against the face and lungs until the air tasted of iron and cold ash. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the restricted zone, his boots sinking into the damp, brittle earth, his breath pluming in white bursts that vanished instantly into the thickening fog. He was forty-two years old, with twenty years...
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