The Golden Crossing
Gold does not bleed, and yet the central marker on the Rafferty estate did, a fine silt of yellow dust seeping from a hairline fracture that ran from the mossy base to the lichen-crusted top, and Roisin Rafferty, twenty-five years old and tasked with cataloging the crumbling boundary stones for the federal writers' project, watched the dust settle on her work gloves with the cold precision of a...
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