The Pale Bridge
You see the ink. It is black. It is wet. It spreads. You are in the office. The fluorescent lights hum. A low, electric drone. You sit at your desk. The desk is beige. The chair is stiff. You are a junior analyst. Your name is on the door. James Whitmore. The door is closed. You do not want it open. Not yet. You hold the pen. The pen is blue. You write a number. A small number. You write...
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