The Distant Machine
The letter lay on the table, the ink still wet, the paper warped by the dampness of the cabin. Elias Thorne read it three times, his fingers tracing the jagged edges where he had cut the envelope with a pocketknife. It was from the camp foreman, a man whose name Elias had once shielded from a court-martial for a minor breach of protocol. The letter was polite, bureaucratic, and final. It stated...
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