The Golden Circuit
The letter was written on the back of a shipping manifest, the ink smudged where Arthur had pressed his pen too hard, as if trying to etch the words into the cheap paper. He was sitting in the booth of the Greyhound depot, watching the rain lash against the glass, the wipers beating a frantic, rhythmic tattoo on the windshield. Across the aisle, a young man named Julian sat with a bag of...
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