The Golden Circuit
The clay pot is heavy, and the grease under my fingernails has dried into a crust that hurts when I flex my hand to hold the ledger. I am scrubbing the entry gate of the South Ward, the bristle of the brush snapping against the rotting wood, while the smell of the city settles into my nostrils: wet wool, tallow, and the sweet, cloying rot of the fever. My name is Thomas, and I am thirty-two...
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