The Wistful Campus
The fox is dead, Elias said, his voice flat and stripped of all inflection, as though he were reporting a broken pipe or a missed delivery. He stood in the doorway of the library, a room that smelled of damp rot and old paper, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad taste. Barnaby lay on the Persian rug, his ribs visible beneath the matted fur, his eyes closed in a stillness...
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