The Golden Downtown
The old quarter of Hanoi moved under a haze so thick the far shore was rumor, a white wall of steam that swallowed the river traffic. In the debtors' prison parlor on the corner, the air smelled of wet plaster and rotting jasmine. I was thirty years old, an indentured servant with four years left on my contract, and I held a golden seal in my palm that hummed against my skin like a living...
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