The Wistful Dinner
The audit is in twelve hours, and the tenure file is incomplete. You say this to Marcus, who is standing by the heavy oak desk, adjusting his spectacles with a hand that trembles slightly from the cold. He looks at you, then at the clock on the wall, which ticks with a slow, wet thud that seems to sync with the rising and falling of the basement’s floorboards. He opens his mouth to respond, but...
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