The Golden Harbor
I am tightening the final bolt on the north-facing girder when the iron begins to sing. It is not a sound my ears are built to catch, but a pressure in the teeth, a low hum that travels up the shaft of the screwdriver and settles in the marrow of my wrist. I am Elias Thorne, a structural engineer of forty-two years, and I have three weeks before the winter storms break the harbor ice, yet the...
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