The Pale Bonsai
Thorne. The name came from the radio, a static-choked rasp that cut through the hum of the fan. I was asleep, or close enough to it, dreaming of a garden where the soil was made of ash and the trees were made of bone. The dream had a texture, gritty and dry, like sandpaper against the tongue. I woke to the sound of my own breathing, heavy and wet in the small booth of the patrol car. The fiscal...
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