The Wistful Incense
The pen in your hand is heavy, the kind with a brass clip that catches the fluorescent light, and you are holding it the way one holds a rifle, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. You are Elias, thirty-four, and you have been waiting in the waiting room of the Consulate General of the United States in Chicago for six hours, your knuckles white around the leather portfolio that contains your...
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