The Faded Frequency
The leather of the journal cover was cracking along the spine, a dry, brittle sound that matched the ache in my knuckles as I gripped it, my fingers white and trembling against the grain. I was forty-two years old, a border patrol agent in the high desert of New Mexico, and I wanted only to clear my name after the incident at the river crossing, but the opposing force was not a man I could...
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