The Pale Door
The fog in the Blackwood Sector did not roll in; it hung, a thick, gray wool that pressed against your face like a damp cloth, smelling of rust, wet iron, and the sour decay of old pine. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a Sergeant in the Border Patrol Corps, and your hands are trembling so violently that you cannot steady the pen to sign the final line of your discharge papers. You...
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