The Wistful Atlas
You keep checking your watch, that old habit from the precinct days, but the hands are frozen, the glass cracked down the middle like a riverbed in drought, and the second hand ticks with a rhythm that is not quite right, too heavy, too slow, as if the air itself has thickened into syrup. You are sitting in the diner on the corner of Fourth and Main, the one with the vinyl seats that stick to...
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