The Pale Shadows
Elias, you’re standing in the middle of the yard again, and if you don’t move your feet from the cracked asphalt before the bell rings, I’m going to write you up for loitering, which is a word that sounds worse than it is but carries the same weight in a report card. You look down at the brass compass in your hands, the case scuffed and dark where your palm has rubbed the metal for three years,...
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