The Distant Affair
The hard drive was warm, a small, heavy brick of brushed aluminum that fit in the palm like a stone from the riverbank. Elias Thorne held it up to the fluorescent tube that buzzed above the server rack, the light harsh and yellow, catching the smudges of fingerprints on the metal. It was three in the morning, the hour when the heating in the Whitmore Building always failed, the pipes...
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