The Wistful Crossroads
The radio handset hung heavy in Elias Thorne’s left hand, the plastic warm from the grip of a man who had not slept in two days. He stood alone in the pine forest, the mist so thick it felt like wet wool against his face, obscuring the world beyond ten feet. He was thirty-four years old, a border patrol officer with six years of service, and he was desperate. He needed to catch the Ghost. Not a...
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