The Distant Joke
The counter on the desk ticked, a dry, mechanical click that marked the seconds of my isolation. Fourteen days. That is how long it has been since the last time I spoke to anyone who did not speak in the flat, sterile tones of procedure. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, and I have spent the last two weeks sitting in this apartment, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of afternoon sun...
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