The Golden Circuit
The soldering iron hisses against the flux, a sharp, acidic note that cuts through the hum of the workshop fan. My hand is steady, or it should be, but the tremor in my left index finger makes the bead of tin wobble, threatening to bridge the two gold traces on the board. I am forty-two years old, and my eyes have begun to fail me in the way that middle age does to men who spend their lives...
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