The Distant Garden
The coat is still on the rack. You know this because you have checked it forty-three times since the last patrol. It is a heavy thing, wool and canvas, the color of dried blood, but the cuffs are fraying. The thread pulls loose, snapping back like a rubber band, a small, persistent pain in the fabric. You are a man of procedure. You are a man of the law, or what remains of it in these shifting,...
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