Coffin Creek River
You rein up at the riverbank. The water churns brown and angry, swollen with rain, gnawing at the pilings of the ferry. The shack door hangs open. Inside, the ferryman lies sprawled across a cot, lips cracked black, eyes filmed — bloodfever, unmistakable. The disease has outrun you.
From the homestead up the rise, a child is coughing. Your mare stamps at the flood's edge, and somewhere beyond that torrent, Coffin Creek is still dying.
The serum in your saddlebag won't stretch in two directions — choose where it does the most good.
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