The Wistful Incense
Forty-seven of the Amber Stair is where the wind breaks over the ridge, a fact that matters more to the wheat than to the men who wait for it in the shanty town below. I am Ralph Roudebush, and for twenty years I have driven the airport shuttle, a job that requires a steady hand and a tolerance for the grey, flat horizon that stretches out like a broken promise. My hands are cracked, the skin...
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