The Pale Letter
Tunis in the age of sail was a white town built on an escarpment of wind farms, where the fishing hamlets owed their breath to merchant credit and the surveyor’s camp marked the frontier with chalk lines that meant nothing to the dead. I am Omar Othman, twelve years old, and I have just been called a thief by the man who made my hands. The accusation hung in the back room where accounts are...
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