Myra
The drive back from the railroad bridge was conducted in a silence so profound it felt heavy. The heater in my small car was blasting, but the chill that had settled into my bones at the edge of the gorge wasn't the kind that could be cured by forced air. It was a deep, crystalline cold—the kind that clarifies rather than numbs. I drove through the sleeping streets of Mount Tabor, past the darkened storefronts and the silent houses where, only hours ago, the air had been thick with the poison of Jason Thorne’s flyers.
I looked at the telephone poles as I passed, seeing the ghost of the staples and the jagged remnants of paper that the townspeople had torn down in their sudden, surprising show of solidarity. I felt a flicker of gratitude, but it was quickly subsumed by my new, surgic
