The Wistful Grid
The letter from the union was thin, translucent as onion skin, and it smelled of the same metallic tang that permeated the basement, a scent like old pennies dropped in rust. I held it up to the fluorescent tube, the light buzzing its low, electric hymn, and read the threat one more time before sliding it into the manila folder labeled "Halloway, E. - Personnel." If I could not produce the...
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