The Weight of Dust and Iron: A Reckoning of Unyielding Lines on the Sun-Bleached Tarmac
CHAPTER 1: THE FRICTION OF BROKEN STANCES “If you want proof, old man, watch the clock.” The words left Miller’s throat dry, catching on the fine, alkaline silt that hung permanently over the sun-bleached concrete of Lane Four. His boots grit against the aggregate. Before him stood Master Chief Vance, seventy-eight years of compacted salt…