The Distant Nightmare
The brass key bit into Elias Thorne’s palm as he stamped the toll ticket, the metal cold and slick with condensation that was not quite dew. He was forty-two, a man whose face had begun to resemble the fog that rolled off the river every night, eroding the sharp lines of his jaw until only a hollow, weary shape remained. The booth was a concrete box, small and claustrophobic, where the air...
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