The Pale Bonsai
The water is not a resource, Elias, it is a debt. The voice came from the passenger seat, dry and rasping, like a leaf skittering across concrete, and it was the voice of Martha, dead three years, though the car smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of rusted iron. Elias Thorne, fifty-two, a man whose hands had once coaxed orchids from volcanic soil but now trembled with the arrhythmia...
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