The Wistful Skyline
The ledger on the table listed fourteen hundred hours of overtime, each entry a small, black wound in the paper. Elias Thorne counted them again, his finger tracing the ink as if it were a bruise, calculating the pension that would allow him to buy a house with a garden where the air did not taste of iron. He was forty years old, a Sergeant in the newly formed Industrial Peace Corps, and he had...
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