The Distant Wound
The grease on my fingers was black and thick, caking into the whorls of my skin as I pushed against the rusted iron of the holding pen. Beside me, Mara’s hand was a cold weight on my wrist, her grip tight enough to bruise, pulling me back from the wall where the air tasted of ozone and burnt hair. We had been walking for three days, the industrial border of the Ashlands stretching out before us...
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