The Distant Machine
The ink was already dry. It had dried while he was still speaking, a testament to the speed with which he had written, or perhaps the speed with which he had decided. Thomas sat in the narrow office, the walls lined with shelves of binders that smelled of dust and old paper. Outside, the rain tapped against the glass, a rhythmic, indifferent percussion. He looked at the pill on the desk. It was...
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