Three Decades of Pretending Come to an End in a Military Holding Cell
“Arthur drew them up,” I said.
“Good old Arthur,” Glenn said, leafing through the first three pages of the surrender draft.
He pressed the paper flat against his knee.
“I told you going to war with me was pointless,” he said.
He went for a pen in his shirt pocket.
I laid my hand over the signature line.
“Not here, Glenn,” I said.
“It’s only paper, Sarah.”
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