The Wistful Campus
The coffee in the cup had frozen solid, a puck of black ice that clinked against the ceramic rim with a sound like a bone breaking. I counted the cracks in the ice, three distinct fissures radiating from the center, and thought of the pension application lying open on the desk, the ink still wet on the signature line. Thirty-four years old, twelve years on the border, and the only thing I had...
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