The Golden Compass
The thermometer in your hand shivers. It is a thin glass stick, cold to the touch, and the mercury inside does not settle. It jitters. You have held it like this for ten minutes. Your fingers are cramped around the stem, white-knuckled, trying to force the liquid to rise. The smell hits you then. Burnt sugar. Caramelized, thick, choking. It is not in the room. It is in your nose. You open the...
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