The Distant Joke
The resignation letter lay in Elias Thorne’s hands, the paper soft from the damp air of the station house. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the slight give of the fiber, a texture that felt more like skin than paper. Outside, the wind stripped the last leaves from the junipers, a sound like dry bones rattling in a jar. Elias was forty-two years old, and he had served...
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