The Wistful Mountain
Act I Manuel Iturbe stood before the mirror in the breakroom, the fluorescent lights humming a low, persistent note that seemed to vibrate in his teeth. He was thirty-four, a border patrol officer whose body had begun to betray the uniform it had worn for twelve years, and the reflection staring back was not the man who had sworn an oath on the hillside, but a shadow of him, frayed at the edges...
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