The Faded Portrait
You sign the line, or I sign the transfer. The ink on the form is black and wet, smelling of iron and cheap chemical fixative. It sits on the laminate desk, a stark white rectangle against the beige linoleum floor of Office 4B. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I have served the Department for twenty-two years. I want to retire before the fiscal year ends so I can keep my pension. The...
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