The Pale Meridian
The form lay on the metal desk, a white rectangle against the gray linoleum, and you held the pen with a grip so tight the knuckles whitened, the plastic barrel cold and slick under your sweating fingers. It was a standard personnel review, printed on cheap stock that felt gritty between your thumb and forefinger, and the date at the top was three days in the future. You had been awake for six...
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