The Wistful Throne
The first thing I counted was the hours: thirty-six hours since I last slept, measured not by the clock on my dashboard but by the angle of the sun as it climbed over the rusted flume of the abandoned mine, a pale, watery light that did nothing to warm the high desert air. I was forty-two years old, a border patrol officer with a badge that felt like a lead weight in my chest, and I had spent...
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