The Pale Bridge
The first thing Elias Thorne did upon waking was count the seconds between the creak of the floorboards and the distant, rhythmic thud of the border patrol’s morning shift changing. Three seconds. Four. Five. The silence in the cabin was heavy, a physical weight pressing against the linoleum floor where a single, dust-moted shaft of light cut through the gap in the curtains. He sat up, the...
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