The Wistful Mountain
The clock on the ridge station ticked with a sound like wet gravel, and Elias Thorne counted the seconds until his mother’s breath stopped for the last time, holding her hand which had gone cold and stiff as the iron railing of the overlook. He was forty years old, a border patrol officer with twenty-two years of service, and he stood there in the thinning air of the Wistful Mountain, watching...
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