PREVIEW
... the cold laminate table. He hoped they missed the tremor in his fingers. His suit, purchased second-hand three years ago, pinched tight under the arms. It smelled of mothballs and desperate preservation.
The interviewer, a man with a hairline receding in retreat from his forehead, tapped a pen against Red’s resume. "Impressive scores. Top of the class at State."
"Thank you." Red forced the smile. He had practiced it in the cracked mirror of his room. "I believe my specialization ...
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