The Distant Joke
The drafting compass lay open on the kitchen table, its steel needle pointing at a spot of spilled coffee that had dried into a brown ring over the last of Elias’s breakfast. He held the instrument in his left hand, the one that still remembered how to grip, while his right hand trembled so violently that the pencil it held skittered across the vellum like a mouse fleeing a trap. Outside, the...
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