The Wistful Asylum
The rain hit the window. It hammered the glass. “Get out,” said Silas. He didn’t look up. He held a wrench. It was slick with oil. The garage smelled of rust and wet dog. “Silas, please,” said Arthur. His voice shook. He held a cardboard box. It was full of books. “Did I say please?” Silas grunted. He tightened a bolt. *Click.* Arthur stood in the doorway. The rain sprayed onto his trousers....
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