The Faded Dust
The vibration of the drill bit against the bone is a sound you know in your teeth before you hear it in your ears, a high-pitched whine that drills into the marrow of your understanding. You are Margaret, and you are forty-seven, and you are holding the skull steady while the machine bites into the temporal lobe. The air in the sub-basement laboratory is thick with the metallic tang of ozone...
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