The Distant Wound
The date on the intake form was wrong, three days early, but I did not correct it. I was too tired to argue with the ink, and the ink was the only thing in this room that did not blink. My wife, Sarah, had been dead for six hours. The air in the infirmary was sterile, recycled, and tasted of copper and old paper. I wanted to keep her. Not her body, which was already in a gray bag, but her...
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