The Wistful Atlas
The ink on the requisition form was still wet, glistening under the single bare bulb that hummed above my desk. I stared at the line where I was supposed to write a name, the pen tip hovering, the scratch of the nib against the paper the only sound in the outpost save for the wind tearing at the shutters. Below the line, in small, precise print, it read: *Describe suspect. State relation to...
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