The Pale Exile
Cold is a debt that accrues interest. Carl Hutchins felt it in the knuckles of his left hand, a persistent, shivering ache that had nothing to do with the spring frost biting through his wool coat. He stood on the platform of the outback station, the air sharp enough to cut glass, watching the last of the commuters peel away from the stadium crowd. They moved in a slow, grey river, their breath...
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