The Wistful Crossroads
The ledger on the desk weighed exactly four pounds, twelve ounces, and three grains of dust. I weighed it against the brass standard on the scale in the corner, a ritual I had performed every morning for the past six years. The ink was dry. The numbers were balanced. The debt was paid. This was the only truth that mattered in the Bureau of Internal Corrections, a sprawling brick institution in...
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