The Distant Nightmare
Can you trust a number that refuses to hold? Yaa Asante woke with the taste of rust in her mouth, the phantom weight of rebar pressing against her sternum. It was four in the morning in the border industrial park, a stretch of concrete where the wind sounded like static on a dead channel. She sat up, the sheets tangled around her knees, and listened to the silence of the room. The only sound...
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