The Cold Blue Blood
There was a morning mist out on the Sound. The late May air was soft and warm and held the first promise of summer. Mitch manned the tiller of Bucky’s Revenge, huddled there in his life jacket with his bad leg held out stiffly before him. The throbbing was beginning to subside. He no longer needed the pain pills and he could hobble around on it pretty well, although he still tired quickly. To build up his strength, he’d taken to walking the beach three times a day-each time a little bit farther than the last.
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