The Faded Road
The audit form lay flat on the oak desk, a sheet of heavy cream paper that seemed to absorb the weak morning light filtering through the blinds. Arthur Whitmore stared at the top line, where his name was printed in crisp, black serif font, and felt the weight of the pen in his hand as if it were a lead bar. He was fifty-four, a city clerk with twenty-six years of service, and he needed this one...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews