The Golden Echoes
My hands were already black with lye and rot when I saw the magistrate, the stench of the tannery so thick it coated the back of my throat like a second skin. I was scrubbing the hide of a goat that had died of fever, the water turning the color of weak tea, when he stepped over the chain-link fence that separated the work yard from the road, his boots caked in the red mud of the floodplain. He...
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