The Distant Wound
The count was three hundred and twelve stitches. I counted them as the surgeon closed the gash on my forearm, each needle pull a small, sharp punctuation mark in the sentence of my survival. The air in the medical bay was thick with the smell of antiseptic and old sweat, a damp cold that seeped into the bones and refused to leave. My father stood by the door, his uniform crisp, his face a mask...
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