The Wistful Campus
The mud is cold, a thick, sucking paste that pulls at your boots with the tenacity of a drowning man’s hand. Your rifle is jammed. The bolt is stuck, frozen by rust and the sheer, brutal pressure of the moment. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, twenty-two years old, and you are trying to keep your hands from shaking. If you do not move, you die. If you die, the bank takes the farm. The land that...
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