The Wistful Witness
The first thing I counted was the seconds. One, two, three, four. The pause in the silence lasted exactly four beats before the arrhythmia stuttered back into a rhythm. I stood in the lobby of St. Jude’s Hospital, the air thick with the scent of old floor wax and damp plaster, and I felt the vibration in my molars. It was a low, subsonic hum, like a refrigerator running in a sealed room. My...
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