The Distant Nightmare
The first cut took four seconds, the blade singing a high, thin note against the cellulose-like bark of the vine that had erupted from the baseboard of Cell 4, and you counted the seconds in your head as you pulled the pruning shears back, watching the sap bead and dry into a black, resinous crust before your eyes. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a senior federal agent with nineteen...
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