The Wistful Atlas
The fluorescent lights in the sub-basement of the Federal Records Center in Virginia did not buzz so much as they hummed, a low-frequency vibration that settled into the marrow of my bones and resonated with the hollow ache of my left knee, a joint that had long since ceased to forgive the winters I had spent on foreign soil. I sat at my workstation, the beige plastic of the chair cold against...
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