The Wistful Grid
The iron bit into my palm before the hammer did, a cold, wet friction that slicked the handle. I was counting the stakes, thirty-one of them along the canal bank, each one a black tooth driven into the earth to hold the grid in place, when the wisteria above us shuddered and dropped a single, bruised leaf. An, my subordinate, watched from the shade of the shelter, his face pale in the haze that...
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