The Pale Protocol
Could a man be wrong about the shape of his own life? I asked this on the third of November, while the frost was creeping up the windowpanes of the sleep bay at the temp agency, a place where the air tasted of stale coffee and damp wool. I was thirty-four years old, Ray Cavett, a home health aide with a student loan that felt heavier than the body I carried, and I was trying to decide if I...
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