The Wistful Grid
Chapter One Colm Doherty, forty-two, had served the border for twenty years, a fact etched into his knuckles as surely as the rust on the gate. The wind off the Shannon was a physical weight, dragging the wet wool of his coat against his spine, a cold that settled in the marrow and refused to leave. He stood before the steel door of Cell 4, the solitary confinement unit that smelled of mildew...
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