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Weekly Contest #358
The trail at South Mountain State Park wound upward through a cathedral of poplar and oak, the canopy filtering the July sun into coins of gold that scattered across the packed earth. Marcus Hale walked three paces ahead of his wife, Elena, the way he always did on the steep sections — not out of rudeness, but because the narrow switchbacks demanded single file, and because Marcus liked to be the one to spot the copperheads first. He'd grown up in these foothills, had scrambled over every ridge between Morganton and the park boundary before ...
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