The Pale Shadows
The terraced hills of Buenos Aires climbed in a jagged spine of concrete and brick, a city stitched together by walls that had outlived the men who built them. Isandro Talamantes stood at the window of the conventillo, watching the drizzle soak the street below, the water turning the asphalt into a slick, black mirror. He was forty-two, a border patrol sergeant with a pension that depended on a...
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