I am far from home. Knee-deep in the salt pond, with a shovel and a barrel, the sun flaming upon my head like fire, raising blisters on my skin. I sense a boil bubbling on my feet as my eyes crawl beyond the treeline at the mound of a hill, waiting for the sun to set. Our time is here. Our only chance. The barber witch of the woods has whispered her secrets into all our enslaved hairs, but I alone stand and wonder what my role is.
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