The Distant Ghost
Thorne. The name hung in the wet air, a summons from the dark, and Elias Thorne looked up from the mud. He was forty-five, a border patrol agent with knees that ached when the barometric pressure dropped, and he was standing in the yard of the remote outpost, clutching a tin box. The box was his father’s. It was rusted, dented, and smelled of old tobacco and copper. He wanted to deliver it to...
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