The Pale Meridian
The rain against the high, narrow windows of St. Jude’s Correctional Facility was not a sound but a weight, a persistent, gray pressure that seemed to push inward, seeking the cracks in the masonry, the gaps in the men’s wills, the hollow places where dignity had been scraped away by years of institutional routine and the slow, grinding erosion of identity. Inside the communal hall, the air...
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