The Pale Shadows
Gunnar Strand’s boots struck the wet cobblestones of the dock, the impact a dull thud that traveled up his shins and settled in the hollow of his chest, where the first dry rattle of the cough had begun to nest like a trapped bird. He was forty years old, a man whose hands had learned the language of Norwegian iron before he ever learned the syntax of American English, and now he stood on the...
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