The Distant Garden
The form was wrong, Mr. Thorne. You’re using the 1994 template. We switched to the digital intake system six months ago, before the winter freeze. Elias Thorne did not look up from the clipboard. He was thirty-four, though the gray at his temples suggested a man who had spent more years in trenches than in a warehouse. His hands, thick-knuckled and stained with the grease of pallet jacks and...
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