The Distant Nightmare
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the Appalachian foothills into a smear of gray mud and rotting pine needles, and Elias Thorne pressed his back against the cold metal of the car door, the silence of the sterile laboratory in his mind already replaced by the wet, organic thrum of the wilderness. He was forty-two, a man who had built his life on the precise, unyielding logic of...
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