The Pale Meridian
The pain in your left hip is a dull, rhythmic throb that matches the cadence of the steam pistons outside the window, a mechanical heartbeat you have come to know better than the one inside your own chest. You are lying on the narrow cot in the back of the moving van, the upholstery a faded green velvet that smells of old tobacco and damp wool, and you are watching the grey light of the...
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