The Distant Whispers
The boiler hissed. A low, metallic groan that vibrated through the floorboards of the infirmary. Thomas lay on the cot, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked. A vein of gray ran from the light fixture down to the wall, a map of dryness. He was seven years old. He had been awake for three days. Not truly awake. Just alert. His body was a cage of lead. The fever had burned...
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