The Wistful Campus
You stand there, in the center of the quad, with the wind cutting through your heavy wool coat, and you can smell the wet earth, the rotting leaves, and the faint, metallic tang of your own fear, which is a smell you have learned to recognize as well as you know the scent of gun oil or the stale coffee in the precinct’s breakroom, and it is a smell that tells you that you are not the man you...
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