The Distant Summer
The ledger page counted forty-two hours of overtime since the last pay day. Thomas Vane’s pen scratched against the paper, a dry, rasping sound that competed with the low, constant thrum of the mill’s main engine. He was sixteen, but his hands looked older, stained with ink and the grey dust of cotton lint that settled on everything in Oakhaven. The light from the gas lamps was turning yellow,...
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