The Wistful Skyline
Thorne. The name was called by the radio, a static-laced bark that cut through the low, persistent hum vibrating in Elias’s left ear. He adjusted his grip on the rifle, the plastic cold and slick in his sweating palm, and waited for the static to clear. The fog was thick enough to chew, a wet gray wool that clung to his jacket and soaked the lining of his boots. He was forty-two, and his knees...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews