The Golden Crossing
I counted the hours on the logbook. Twelve shifts. Four hundred and thirty-two checks. That was the arithmetic of my life, a cold sum that added up to nothing but rust. I was forty-two, a border patrol agent, and I wanted to secure my pension before Mara left me for the city. She had been packing for three weeks. Her bags sat by the door like two heavy, silent accusations. The opposing force...
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