The Pale Bonsai
I Ngozi Mohammed lay on the dissection table, the knife hovering an inch from his sternum, and he thought of the price of a coffin in the wet season. It was not a time to be afraid, he decided, but a time to be precise, for the Curator had ordered the work done before the bell buoy in the fog sounded its third toll. The room smelled of formalin and wet earth, a scent that clung to the back of...
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