The Wistful Silence
The celebration in the command post dining hall is a lie constructed from stale beer and fluorescent hum. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a border patrol officer with twelve years of service and a left knee that has begun to betray you with a rhythmic, grinding ache. You stand at the periphery, holding a paper cup of lukewarm lager, watching the men laugh. They do not see you. They see the...
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