God, how Raymond hated the city—it was a festering disease, spreading across the countryside. Every time he blinked, every time he slept, every time he turned his back, the steel girders creaked and the concrete walls closed in around him. In his forty-three years of life, he had remained the same, still a country bumpkin by heart. Not just by heart, but by liver and kidneys, brain and lungs, sinew and skin. He couldn’t stomach the city; his anatomy just wasn’t designed for it. Where the country expanded, the city contracted. Where the country stretched, the city shrank.
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