The Distant Ghost
Nazario Ybáñez was forty years old, a divorcee who filmed weddings for a living, and he had not eaten in three days. The hunger was a physical weight, a stone in his gut that made his hands tremble as he sat in the damp cellar of the hurricane shelter. I dreamed of a banquet in the sealed vault, a table of marble where I craved the taste of the forbidden honey-cake. Old Kael, the union steward,...
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