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SHIPS IN THE NIGHT by Jack McDevitt Arnold was nearing the end of his first mile, moving methodically along the pebbled, grassy track at the edge of the treeline, looking out over the Red River of the North, when the wind first spoke to him. It blew through the twilight. Branches creaked and newly-fallen leaves rattled against the trunks of elms and boxwoods. The forest sighed his name. Imagination, of course. The river was loud around the bend. The jogging path crunched underfoot, and wings fluttered in the trees. Arnold. Clearer that time. A cold breeze rippled through him. The sound died away, smothered in the matted overhang. He drew up gradually, slowed, stopped. Looked around. He blinked furiously at the trees. The river was gray in the failing light. "Is someone there?" A sparrow soared out of a red oak, and tracked through the sky, across the top of the windscreen, out over the water, over the opposite bank and into Minnesota. It kept going. The current murmured past a clutch of dark rocks in the middle of the stream. Somewhere, in the distance, he heard a garage door bang down. He pushed off again. But he ran more slowly. Arnold. He stopped again, tumbled to a halt. Froze. There was no mistaking it this time: the sound was only a whisper,
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