The argument started, as it always did, with the dust.
"You’re letting it settle," Margaret said. Her voice was low, a rasp of dry leaves scraping across pavement. She stood in the center of the breakroom, her hands clasped tightly around a mug of lukewarm coffee. The steam had long since died, leaving a thin, oily ring on the surface. "It’s getting into the vents. Into the files. Into us."...
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