The Golden Crossing
I was scrubbing the grease off the transmission housing when the phone rang, the receiver heavy and cold in my hand. The used-car lot was quiet, the rain drumming a steady, dull rhythm on the tin roof, but my mind was already at the Municipal Water Authority, where the monsoon was gathering its weight in the clouds above the lowlands. I needed the residency permit by Friday, or the floodwaters...
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