The Pale Altar
"Put the wrench down, June. You’re going to crack the drywall." The voice belonged to Dale, her ex-husband, standing in the doorway of the basement with his arms crossed. He looked thin, his shirt hanging loose over a frame that had once held more meat. June did not look up. She was elbow-deep in the crawlspace, the air thick with the dust of old insulation and the metallic tang of rust. The...
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