The Wistful Witness
The review board’s chairman, a man named Harrow who wore his suspenders like a man wearing a noose, called my name from the back of the conference room, his voice flat and devoid of any particular warmth. “Elias Thorne,” he said, tapping a pen against the table, “please step forward.” I stepped forward, my knees cracking in a rhythm that matched the low, persistent hum vibrating through the...
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