The Golden Scar
The tremor in my left hand is no longer a secret, not to the medical drones that hover at the periphery of our vision, scanning for the micro-tremors of advanced neural degradation, nor to the sterile white walls of our apartment in Sector 4, which seem to shrink as the year advances. I am fifty-four years old, a Senior Border Warden for the Ministry of Order, and I have spent the last three...
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