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A Tale of Storms

The soft glow of the nightstand lamp blinded Silvia for a moment. As soon as she was able to squint around, she swung the covers open and jumped out of bed, grunting and grumbling under her breath.

One damned hour. She’d been turning and tossing in bed for a whole hour, unable to sleep, the idea of that video waiting for her corroding her brain.

She washed her face with cold water and grabbed her earphones. A moment later, she was back in bed, resting against the headboard, tablet in hand. She breathed deep and played the video.

The Chilean flags everywhere didn’t leave much doubt about where the video had been filmed. It was a small stadium, for about ten thousand people, and it was crowded to the brink of structural collapse.

The stage was dark and empty, and people whistled and shouted and screamed for the band to come back. Then a beam like an airport searchlight pierced the air, blinding bright, straight to Jim’s vacant microphone,

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