The Wistful Dinner
"You’ll have to sign here, Yan Ma, or the grain stays in the void." The clerk’s voice was thin, stretched over the noise of the rain that had not fallen in three years but still drummed against the tin roof of the union office. I stared at the ledger, the whale-oil prices dropping by the hour, the ink wet and black as a bruise. The paper smelled of damp wool and old debt. Outside, the Shifting...
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