The Wistful Dinner
The heavy, rusted key ring hung in Elias Thorne’s left hand, the metal cold enough to bite through his glove. He stood in the center of the St. Jude’s Community Center breakroom, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sickly note that seemed to vibrate in his teeth. It was 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, and the draft was back. It did not blow in from a window or a door; it rose from the floorboards, a...
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