The Distant Summer
The fever broke at four in the morning, leaving me with a mouth full of copper and a throat that felt like I’d swallowed a handful of gravel. I counted the seconds between the ticks of the hallway clock, one, two, three, until the sound faded into the white noise of my own ragged breathing. I am forty-two years old, which feels like a lie in the narrow cot at St. Jude’s Home for the Aged, a...
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