Working title: Term Life
On the night before his sixty-first
birthday, Corson Graves sat down at his desk and counted his money—gold coins;
other than the equity in his house and the signed 1st editions in
the locked glass case to the right of his desk, it was all in gold now—and when
he was done, concluded, as he had the previous night, and the one before that one,
that if he wasn’t dead in three years he was fucked.
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