The Golden Scar
I was wiping the soot from the glass of the incineration chute when the order came through the pneumatic tube, the paper sliding out with a wet, heavy thud that made my hand jerk, knocking a glass of cold tea onto the linoleum. The tea spread in a dark, irregular star across the floor, and I stood there, holding a rag, watching it soak into the grout, while the clock on the wall ticked with the...
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