The Pale Bonsai
The red pen mark sits on the file like a fresh wound, the word inadequate scrawled in Halloway’s cramped, angular hand, and you hold the folder in your hands as if it might burn you, the fluorescent lights of the Municipal Records Bureau humming a low, electric tune that seems to drill directly into the base of your skull. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a man who has spent the last six...
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