The Distant Summer
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, metallic mist that settled on Elias Thorne’s uniform and turned the Nevada desert into a slick, sucking mirror of the sky, and he stood there in the mud, his knees trembling not from the cold but from the arrhythmia that had become his constant companion, clutching his service pistol with a grip so white-knuckled it felt like the wood of the...
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