The Golden Harbor
Thorne. The name hung in the air, cold and sharp, spoken by the night porter who was not supposed to be awake. I turned from the ledger. The clock on the wall ticked, a dry, wooden sound that marked the seconds I was wasting. I was forty-two years old, a senior clerk at the Meridian Insurance Exchange, and I had twenty-four hours to finalize the "Golden Harbor" policy before the fiscal year...
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