The Golden Compass
I was wiping the condensation off the insulin cooler when the phone rang, the plastic handle slick in my sweating palms. The air in the parlor smelled of wet wool and the stale dust that gathers in the damp corner of the library where the books were stacked too high. I am Asim Awan, a freelance obituarist who writes for the dead, and I was standing in the shadow of a house that had held our...
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