The Golden Harbor
Gopal Menon asked the harbor master if the ledger was real, the question hanging in the salt-choked air of the reclaim dome where the smell of wet rust and old paper clung to the back of his throat. He was fifty-two, his uniform stiff with the damp of the wet snow that fell too heavily for the lines, a physical weight that mirrored the tremor in his hands, a palsy that had begun to steal his...
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