The Distant Summer
The light in the actuary’s office was the color of old dishwater, flat and yellow under the fluorescent tubes. Elias Thorne counted the hours on his wrist, a habit he had developed to keep his hands from shaking. He had worked six hours and forty minutes that day. The frost was on his left hand, a patch of white that did not melt, creeping up the knuckles like a stain on paper. He tucked his...
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