The Distant Ghost
Fatima Kassem, thirty-four, a seamstress in the lower maintenance corridors of the Casablanca bidonville, had her hands stained with the grey dust of the air scrubbers that kept the colony breathing. The year was 1912, though the dates meant little down here in the wet dark, where the only light was the sickly yellow of the emergency strips and the silence that followed the siren. I wanted the...
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