Blacke Harbor (Part 2, page 2 of 10)


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Part 2

“Hey, Erik.” Somewhere from deep within the acrid haze a familiar man’s voice called out.

“Hey, George. How’re things at the dock?” He tossed a quick wave in the direction of the voice and pretended not to hear the reply over the din made by the longshoremen, mill workers and fishermen as he fixed his gray eyes on the stool at the end of the long, polished bar.

He slipped the silky “Reserved” banner from the back of the weathered hide of the barstool and eased into the cool seat. It had been his seat for as long as he could remember. It had certainly been his seat longer than anyone else in this place could remember.

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