The Faded Guest
The fever takes you first. It is a wet, heavy thing, a silt that settles in the lungs before it ever touches the mind. You are lying in the back of the moving van, the canvas walls sweating with the humidity of the afternoon, and you know with the cold, clinical certainty of a man who has spent thirty years mapping the topography of his own decay that the end is not a cliff edge but a slow...
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