The Faded Root
Elias counted the hours on the clock face, seven, eight, nine, until the red stamp on the file stopped looking like ink and started looking like a bruise. The air in the processing center tasted of ozone and old coffee, a cold draught that cut through my uniform jacket and settled in the marrow of my bones. I was forty-two, a border patrol agent with twelve years of service, and I had come here...
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