The Golden Greenhouse
"Sign here. The pension is contingent on the death being classified as duty, not desertion." I sign. The pen scratches against the paper like a rat chewing through a wire. My name, Johannes Visser, appears in the margin. I am fifty-two. My hands shake. The clock on the wall ticks. It is the sound of a guillotine blade falling, over and over, the tobacco cutter in the corner clicking dry. I need...
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