The Wistful Skyline
Manuel Navarro was already three steps up the slick, muddy bank when the water turned black. He held the coil of rope in one hand, the other braced against the rotting wood of the pier, his boots sinking into the sawmill mud that had been churning since the fires started upriver. The haze from the burning sugar cane in the north hung low, turning the afternoon light into a thick, yellow paste...
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