The air in the warehouse district of Chicago tasted of ozone and wet concrete, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias’s throat. It was a Tuesday, unremarkable in its grayness, yet for Elias, a boy of twelve who possessed a mind like a finely tuned instrument, the city felt like a machine winding down, creaking against its own friction. He sat on the curb outside the old textile mill, his...
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