The Faded Dust
The first thing you count is the hours. Twelve hours of digging, twelve hours of standing in the rain, twelve hours of holding the casket while the mud sucked at your boots. You count them because counting is easier than remembering what Halloway said to you in his sickbed, the words dry and brittle as the bones in the soil. He had promised you the badge. That was the deal. You would be the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews