The Wistful Atlas
Chapter One Pilar Molina’s fingers were slick with the residue of the gas ring when she pulled the lever, the metal cold and biting against her palm. The gate to the detention center did not swing; it hissed, a pneumatic exhale that smelled of ozone and wet earth, a scent that cut through the sterile, recycled air of the courtyard. She was thirty-four, and her uniform fit loosely over the frame...
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