The Distant Wound
The entry in the ledger was a smudge of red ink, a refusal of payment for the extra shift, signed with a hand that trembled only slightly, a tremor that matched the vibration of the iron bars surrounding the command center. You read it twice, the paper thin as the skin on a bruised knuckle, and then you folded it into your breast pocket, the crease sharp against the wool of your tunic. The...
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