The Wistful Campus
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the gravel parking lot of the Federal Correctional Institution into a slurry of mud and tire tracks. Elias Thorne sat in his office, the blinds drawn halfway, watching the water streak down the glass in long, erratic lines. He was a man who measured time in shifts and shift changes, in the rhythmic clanging of the...
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