The Distant Journey
The pen in your right hand is a Pilot G-2, 0.7 millimeter, black, the kind that runs out of ink exactly when you are trying to sign a document that matters, and you are currently trying to sign a correction form for a clerical error in the estate file of Thomas Hale, your father, who died three years ago in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. You are Elias, thirty-two,...
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