The Farmhand
Разное | 29 апреля
The body in the doorway lay so deliberately, so theatrically, that it seemed printer’s ink should flow from its wounds instead of blood. An arm was stretched forward—fingers clenched into a fist, as if the man had tried to grasp the air, to seize the moment that existed before the click. The uniform was Polish. Real. The man was not. The man was from a prison; they had dressed him in that uniform six hours ago, and now he lay motionless
Рыбинский дом печати
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