The Footprint
The piece of paper was blank. Not handwritten-blank, not typed-blank. Blank-blank. A sheet of standard letter-size paper, eight and a half by eleven inches, purchased at any drugstore in Manhattan for twelve cents, that had been deliberately emptied of every mark upon it. Arthur Shaw held it in his hands and felt the absurdity of it the way a man feels a toothache — not sharply, but...
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