The Wistful Witness
"Cut the line," I said. My voice was flat. It was the voice I used for inspections. For drills. For the moments when the silence was too heavy to carry. The man in front of me turned. He was older than me. Maybe sixty. His uniform was clean, but the fabric looked thin, worn at the elbows. He smiled. It was a tired smile. The kind that has seen too much coffee and not enough sleep. "I’m not...
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