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... ight he sat beside her at a backwater supply post. She hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in days. She had been ready to vanish, to slip out past the patrols and disappear into the snow. But he had brought two chipped cups and a half-empty bottle—not of liquor, but preserved fruit tonic. Some awful mix the supply sergeants passed off as a "celebration ration."
"Drinking doesn’t fix it," he’d said that night, calm as ever, "but sharing something bitter makes it easier to swallow."
He ...
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