The Distant Machine
Thorne. The camp doctor called it across the muddy yard, his voice thin and reedy, cutting through the damp November air of the refugee camp in Vienna. Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old and hollowed out by a heart that refused to keep time, looked up from his cot. He wanted only one thing: a visa to New York. To get it, he had to sell his late wife’s pocket watch to a collector in Zurich. The...
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