The Broken Things
ACT I: THE AWAKENING The machine was loud and smelled of grease. Jack Moran stood beside it on the night shift, his hands moving automatically through the routine that had become his life—inspect, adjust, repeat, inspect, adjust, repeat. Detroit had been quiet for ten years now, and the quiet was worse than the noise ever was. He was twenty-five. He had spent fifteen of those years in the...
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