The Wistful Asylum
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Home for the Aged was a cathedral of plastic and fluorescent light, a place where the air tasted of boiled cabbage and old wool. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the head of a long table, his uniform pressed tight against a frame that had once been capable of breaking doors and now seemed merely to contain a bag of bones. It was his fiftieth birthday, a milestone that felt...
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