The Distant Metropolis
The winter camp of the nomad confederacy was a place of hoarded grain and cold silence, and I, Khalid Ghannam, son of the pawnbroker, sat in the reclamation yard of dead machines, sorting rusted gears by size while the first real dark of autumn pressed against the tent flaps. I was twelve years old, though the hunger had made me look older, my hands mapped with the blue veins of a boy who had...
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