The Pale Dance
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Regional Rehabilitation Center did not smell of antiseptic or stale coffee, as one might expect of a place dedicated to the mending of broken bodies, but rather of wet chalk and the metallic tang of ozone that clung to the skin like a second, heavier layer of sweat. It was a sterile, humming silence, a frequency that vibrated in the teeth, a...
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