PREVIEW

... ould conjure after witnessing the universe throw its newest, shiniest middle finger into our already overcrowded tragedy.

There were no clever angles, no cunning stratagems, no heroic last stands—just one shrieking word pounding through my skull like a war drum with a drinking problem: run.

And so, like a man who had belatedly realized he’d left the oven on during the apocalypse, I bolted.

The plaza, of course, did not bolt with me.

Instead it froze. Every last id ...

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