The Distant Cartograph
The taste of the morphine tincture is not sweet, as the poets of the old days claimed, but a sharp, metallic bitterness that coats the back of the throat and settles into the bones like cold iron. You are Elias, forty-two years old, and you have not tasted it in three months, yet your mouth waters with a phantom ache that no water can quench. You sit in the sterile, windowless ward of the...
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