The Golden Harbor
The notice was pinned to the door with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and brittle as a dead leaf, and it cost me twelve years of my life to read. It stated, in the dry, impersonal hand of the Coast Guard, that my service would be reviewed upon the survival of the current winter, a phrasing that felt less like a promise and more like a trap. I smoothed the crease with my thumb, the leather of...
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