The Golden Downtown
The water in the basement of the Ironworks had risen to Thorne’s knees, cold and tasting of rust, but he did not move. He held the glass jar tight against his chest, his knuckles white, the water lapping at the rim. Inside, the golden beetles pulsed with a rhythmic heat that seeped through the glass and into his palms, a warmth that felt less like temperature and more like a second heartbeat....
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