The Golden Scar
The ledger showed four hundred and twelve hours logged in the salt flats, a number that meant nothing to the Bureau but everything to Elias Thorne’s heart. He counted the stitches on his left forearm, where the skin had pulled tight and white from the wind, and then he counted the days since Mara had vanished: one thousand and nine. In the grey corridors of the State Reclamation Zone, the air...
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