The Dead Hand
It is difficult to keep the spectre of death at the front of one’s mind. Eventually, a human being can adapt to anything. Your first few weeks working at a nuclear launch facility, the dread of having to perform your duty weigh heavily on the mind. But after months without incident, even this occupation becomes mundane. No longer do the air-conditioned concrete hallways chill one’s bones. Instead, they are an inconvenience to be kept at bay by an extra layer or two. Drills become a chore,...