The Distant Cartograph
The bone in my left hand was a map of my failure. I looked at it. The splintered radius lay across the kitchen table, picked clean of flesh by the river water. It was white and dry. It looked like a piece of driftwood. I held it. It was cold. "You are not a man," said the voice from the door. "You are a tool." I did not turn. I knew the voice. It was Colonel Halloway. He stood in the frame of...
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