Harold Briggs woke at four in the morning without an alarm. His body had been trained by fifteen years on an assembly line to wake at this hour, and the training had outlasted the line by eight.
He lay on his back and listened to the silence of his apartment. The radiator clanked twice and stopped. Somewhere below him, a car door shut. A dog barked once, then gave up. He was thirty-four years old and his back hurt. Not dramatically. Not in a way that a doctor could diagnose. Just a constant, low-grade ache in the lower lumbar region, the kind of pain that is the accumulated memory of...
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