The Distant Temple
The left hand has begun to betray me, a violent, rhythmic shaking that starts in the knuckles and travels up the wrist like a current running through a wire that has been stripped of its insulation. It is a small, mechanical failure, but in the sterile, echoing halls of St. Jude’s, where silence is the primary currency and compliance is the only accepted form of payment, even a trembling finger...
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