The Wistful Grid
Chapter One I remember the heat of the bayou settling into the straw pallets of the barracks, a damp weight that pressed against my ribs until I could barely draw a breath, and I remember thinking that Julien was right to leave the door open, though the wind was not the kind that cleared the air but the kind that carried the rot of the swamp into the lungs. We were living in the shadow of the...
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