The Pale Meridian
You’re sure of it, are you? The question hung in the air of the station, heavy with the smell of stale tobacco and damp wool, and I did not answer because the answer was already carved into the bone of my left ankle, a sharp, electric tremor that had been growing louder with every mile I walked toward the homestead on the ridge. I was thirty-two years old, a border patrol officer with twelve...
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