The Wistful Grid
The scanner bed was sticky with old adhesive. I wiped it down with a rag that smelled of lemon cleaner and mildew, the plastic surface slick under my thumb. March 12, 2024. I have been working the night shift for three weeks, my hands cramping in the cold air of the records office. I need this pension. The budget cuts are coming in April, and without the digitization quota met, my forty-two...
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