The Distant Machine
October 14, 1924 The rain has not stopped for three days. It hits the canvas of my tent with a rhythmic, dull thud that keeps me awake, a metronome counting down the hours until my supplies run out. I am forty-two years old and I am shivering in a muddy hole in the Scottish Highlands, trying to finish a survey of the old border road before winter kills me. Julian died three years ago, and he...
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