The Golden Master
The rain on the asphalt smells of wet iron and old pennies. You are driving. Your hands are steady on the wheel, white-knuckled, but the car moves with a smooth, indifferent grace through the suburban sprawl. It is late. The headlights cut through the fog, illuminating the wet hedges and the occasional stray dog huddled under a porch. You are going to see him. You know this in your bones, a...
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