The Wistful Witness
The tin was crushed, the edges jagged like broken teeth, and I held it in my palm until the metal bit into my skin, a sharp, cold pain that kept me tethered to the reality of the truck cab while the Nevada sun hammered the windshield with a relentless, blinding indifference. Inside the tin, the white pills rattled with a sound that was too loud, too distinct, a rhythmic clicking that seemed to...
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