The Golden Farce
Ivana Grigoryan lay in the silt of the reclamation yard, her chest heaving against the cold, wet metal of the dead machines that surrounded her, the air tasting of ozone and rusted iron. It was the third year of the Siege of Kars, or so the court called it, though here on the Swahili coast, under the short, grey light of a winter that seemed to last forever, the war was a matter of oxygen...
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