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Kestry saw the strangers on his way back from his spot, the place near the estuary where he liked to go to fish when life became what his mother used to call vexatious. That he rarely caught anything never bothered him. That was not the point—it was quiet and there was no door on which people with problems could knock. But he rarely saw anyone else nearby, and never three people he did not know. They were near the water where the stream flowed into the river. All of them wore dark brown and gray, from what Kestry could make