The Golden Crossing
The pipette trembled in my hand, the glass slick with condensation and the greasy residue of sulfuric acid. I was thirty-two years old, a chemist of modest reputation in the remote Appalachian mill town of Oakhaven, and I was trying to save my husband, Thomas, from a wasting that had no name in the medical texts I had bought with our last savings. The year was 1924, and the air in the...
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