The Wistful Voyage
October 14, 0400 hours. The rain has not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turns the forest floor into a slick of mud and rot. I am Elias Thorne, Senior Border Patrol Officer, and I am writing this by the light of a dying flashlight, my hands trembling so violently that the stylus scratches erratic lines into the wet paper of my logbook. I need to secure my pension before...
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