The Faded Shield
Christina Vassiliou is forty-two, and her hands shake when she holds a pen, a fact that has cost me more than I can count in the last six months. Act I The light in the break room was the grey of old dishwater, the kind that starts in October and refuses to leave, staining the vending machines and the linoleum alike. I sat on the plastic stool, my taxi medallion wrapped in a rag in my bag, the...
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