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237. The Roof Still Holds
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238. Hope In A Single Breath
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... y across twin trestles, a rough-cut pine log he’d planed twelve times already; and still each stroke of the drawknife felt wrong. The grain hummed under his fingers like a cough caught in the wood.
Hhk—kh-kh.
Pain speared his ribs. He lurched forward, bracing on the beam as violet-stained phlegm spattered the shavings below. Breath. Swallow. Again.
Keep working.
He wiped the blood on his trousers and set the blade again. The log didn’t protest. It simply accepted ...
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