The Wistful Mountain
The coat was blue. Not the deep, somber navy of the office, but a bright, screaming azure that seemed to vibrate against the gray wool of the room. It hung on the back of a chair, a single, defiant splash of color in the sterile, fluorescent purgatory of the disciplinary hearing. "It’s a statement," Gerald said. He didn’t look at the committee. He looked at the coat. "It’s just a coat." The...
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