Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. Sebastian crouched on the floor with a single dead victim, a young highwayman. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “Thank you—for coming,” he said.
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