The Pale Dance
I The undersea cluster of Valverde hummed with the low, constant pressure of three hundred meters of water, a community of rusted pipes and velcro-patched bulkheads where the air tasted of iodine and stale coffee. We were a border town in the deepest sense, divided not by a fence but by the language of the maintenance crews, the Chicano English of the surface-born drifting through the halls...
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