The Distant Machine
The bread broke in Thomas’s hands. It was not a clean snap. It crumbled. The crust disintegrated into dust that fell onto his uniform, onto the polished floor of the mess hall, onto the plate where the white loaf had rested. He held the halves up. They looked like broken bones. "Careful, Thomas," said Sergeant Miller. He did not look up from his own tray. "It’s just rye. Not your dignity."...
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