The Golden Crossing
The pen was scratching against the carbon copy when the blackness first appeared, a thin, ink-black line tracing the vein on the inside of my wrist, cold as a drop of water on a winter stone. I stopped writing, my hand hovering over the form for the seized contraband, and watched the mark settle into the skin, permanent and undeniable, a signature I had not authorized. The office smelled of...
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