The Distant Blade
The pressure is dropping. You feel it in the knuckles of your left hand, a grinding, arthritic protest that announces the weather before the barometer does. You sit in the center of the dining room, the house silent around you, and hold the service revolver in your lap. It is a heavy thing, a .45 caliber weapon with a walnut grip worn smooth by your father’s hand, and now by yours. You are...
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