The Golden Maze
Three days. That was the number on the foreclosure notice, printed in bold red ink that looked like a bruise on the white paper. I counted the hours in the train ride, then the steps up the gravel drive, then the bricks in the wall of the Golden Maze. My father’s estate was a rotting thing, the paint peeling from the siding in long, dry strips that smelled of mildew and old dust. The bank...
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