The Pale Dance
"Don't shoot him, you fool, you'll ruin the pension." The voice was not mine. It was the voice of the Inspector, but it came from the wire itself, a low, metallic thrum that vibrated against my molars until the taste of iron flooded my mouth. I stood in the fog, the border fence humming beside me like a plucked harp string, and I could feel the heat of the summer dusk pressing down on the...
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