The Wistful Atlas
Thorne! Can you hear me? The voice came from the bottom of the spiral stair, muffled by the stone and the wind, but I knew it was Deputy Miller. I didn’t answer. I was too busy wiping the red streak from my lip with the back of my hand, tasting the iron tang that had become the constant flavor of my life. I am forty-five years old, which is young for a sheriff, but old for a man whose lungs are...
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