The Distant Journey
The forged transit pass lay on Elias Thorne’s desk, a crumpled rectangle of cheap paper that smelled of ink and defeat. He was forty-two, and his hands, usually steady enough to steady a rifle in a gale, trembled as he stared at the document that had sealed his fate. For three years, he had patrolled the gray, muddy stretches of the northern border, a man who believed in the line, in the law,...
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