The Golden Greenhouse
The truck shakes. You feel it in your teeth. Dust coats the inside of your mouth. It tastes like chalk and old rust. You grip the steering wheel. Your knuckles are white. The road is a ribbon of red dirt stretching into the heat haze. "Left," the radio crackles. You do not move. "Left. Sector four. The greenhouse." You turn left. The truck lurches. The suspension groans. You are a soldier. You...
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