M. Kevin Hayden
A low-hanging gray cloud swells ahead, raining a curtain of twitching pale centipedes by the thousands.
You turn to run but freeze as a torrent of itch pours down your back—their wiry bodies try to scramble out of your shirt from above and below.
You turn to run but freeze as a torrent of itch pours down your back—their wiry bodies try to scramble out of your shirt from above and below.
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