The Faded Frontier
The count was precise, a necessity of the trade rather than a whim of the mind. Forty-two stitches in the left patella, each one pulled tight with a needle that bit into the gristle of the bone, a procedure that required a steady hand and a silence that Vance maintained with the rigidity of a machine. I lay on the canvas stretched over the cold, highland rock, the wind screaming through the...
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