The Golden Crossing
The clock on the wall ticked four hundred and twelve times before the hum started. Elias Thorne counted them because counting was the only thing that kept his left hand from shaking off the pen. He was forty-two, and his knuckles were swollen, the skin pulled tight over bone that felt hollow. The concrete floor of Checkpoint 4 was cold, a slab of gray silence that absorbed the sound of his...
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