The Golden Harbor
My hand is shaking so badly that the glass shard slips from my grip and skitters across the linoleum floor of the cell, a tiny, bright thing that looks like a piece of broken ice in the dim light. I am Thomas Bradshaw, constable, thirty-four years old, and I am currently watching my own shadow peel away from the wall like old paint, curling into a writhing, insect-like shape that only I can...
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