The Golden Compass
The ledger of Elias Thorne’s life was kept in hours, specifically the forty-two hours remaining in his shift before his heart, a muscle grown thick and brittle from years of stress and bad coffee, would likely fail him. He sat in the back of the unmarked sedan, watching the wipers beat a rhythmic, dull thud against the windshield as rain slicked the streets of D.C. in a sheen of grey. In his...
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