The Golden Scar
The light in the rationing hall is the color of old milk, flat and yellow, catching the dust motes that hang in the still air. You count the hours since your last meal. Three days. Four days. Your stomach has stopped growling, which is worse than the noise, because the silence means your body is eating itself. You stand in the queue, Rupert Whitlock, twelve years old, your shoes worn through at...
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