The Golden Scar
The paste was gray. It was always gray, a thick sludge that tasted of iron and nothing else, but today it looked different to Elias. It looked like a lie. "I want the good stuff," Elias said, his voice tight. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to reach over the counter where the supervisor, a man with a neck like a raw ham, was scraping the last of the ration into a bowl. The supervisor didn't...
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