The Distant Machine
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel lot behind the federal correctional facility into a slick, grey mirror that reflected the indifferent steel of the watchtower. Marcus stood inside the tower, his back to the glass, staring at the rain as if it were a personal insult. He was a man of few words and many scars, the kind of scars that do not show on the skin but live in...
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