The Faded Frontier
The dream was always the same, a loop of mud and rust that Elias Thorne could not shake loose. He woke with the smell of wet earth in his nostrils, the frayed leather of Barnaby’s collar pressing against his palm as if the dog were still there, still breathing, still waiting for the command that would never come. He was forty-five, a border patrol agent whose body had begun to ache in the damp...
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