The Distant Crown
The first thing you learn about a broken hand is how much it costs to hold still. You count the hours in the waiting room, tallying the flickering fluorescent tubes above the plastic chairs, each buzz a small, electric coin dropped into the jar of your patience. It is a Tuesday in November, and the air in St. Jude’s Hospital smells of floor wax and stale coffee, a scent that has seeped into the...
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