The Pale Meridian
Mara, you’re late again. The voice comes from the top of the stairs, flat and devoid of inflection, hanging in the stagnant air of the basement like a damp cloth. It is Director Halloway, his silhouette framed by the single, flickering fluorescent tube at the landing, his tie a rigid line of black wool against his white shirt. You do not look up from the box you are prying open, the cardboard...
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