The Golden Quest
1912, November. The paper is thick, cream-colored, and heavy in my hands. It is a letter from the Board of Governors, and it does not ask; it informs. I am to oversee the administration of the new Golden Tonic to Patient Four. The ink is black, stark against the pale stock. I sign the bottom. My hand is steady. I have thirty-two years of service ahead of me, or perhaps less, but the pension is...
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