The Distant Wound
Mahmoud Othman, thirty-two, held the rank of Senior Enforcer in the Ministry of Purity, a title that carried a salary of four hundred drams a month and a reputation for breaking men without breaking his own back. He stood in the damp cellar of the old lighthouse, the air heavy with wet stone and rotting kelp, while the captured dissident, a thin man named Yusuf, sat bound to a chair. The...
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