The Pale Meridian
The ink was still wet, a dark, viscous smear against the cream-colored paper, and my thumb pressed into it until the skin turned white. I was correcting a date in the 1890 census ledger, a minor clerical error that had slipped past the previous curator’s eye, when I noticed the marginalia. There, in the cramped, slanting script of the original clerk, was my name. Not Elias Thorne, the junior...
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