The Wistful Grid
The actuary counted the hours. Forty-two years in the trade, and the math had never been more precise, nor the body more unreliable. Elias Thorne sat at his desk in the Meridian Insurance Exchange, the smell of stale coffee and ozone from the old server room clinging to the carpet. He was fifty-eight. The model on his screen was perfect. It predicted mortality with a ninety-nine-point-nine...
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