The Ashes of Azoukralon

The line didn't merely stretch down the block; it pulsed. It was a living, shivering organism of fleece jackets and thermos cups snaking around three full city blocks of damp Seattle concrete. The low hum of a diesel generator vibrated through the soles of Greg's sneakers, originating from the news van parked illegally halfway up the street. Its telescopic antenna extended into the predawn gloom,…