The Distant Nightmare
The first sentence of the story is not a description of the rain, but a fact about Llewellyn Vaughan, who had worked the ski lift cables for six summers in the valley and now sat in the damp concrete of the community shelter, his hands resting on the grey linoleum floor, feeling the grit of coal dust embedded under his fingernails like a second skin. He was thirty-four years old, a man who had...
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