The Distant Wound
Act I The causeway was drowning again, the printed streets of Nairobi’s estate blocks submerging under the grey tide that rose twice a day, forcing the refugees to haul their boots and iodine vials up the maintenance airlock stairs while the dovecote cooed a hollow, wet rhythm against the hull. I stood at the bottom of the spiral, my oxygen subscription meter blinking red, watching the water...
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