The Distant Machine
Arthur. The name is called from the other side of the partition, a sharp, percussive sound that cuts through the low, rhythmic thrum of the boiler room. It is not a question, but a summons, and you turn your head slowly, the movement stiff in your neck, while the vibration in your teeth intensifies to a dull, grinding ache. You are thirty-four years old, a junior clerk in the accounts...
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