• Wolfshead
    I remember the autumn when I first saw Thomas Winthrop III standing in his rose garden like a man waiting for a ship that would never dock again. It was 1925, and the maples along Hempstead Harbor were already burning with that particular shade of crimson that only exists in photographs and memories. I had come to Long Island on a suggestion from a friend who told me about a cousin, a distant...
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  • Rust Belt Wolves
    Ray counted the money on a Tuesday. Five thousand dollars. Crisp bills from the credit union downtown. He'd been saving since the factory closed three years ago. Some of the bills were rolled up tight, some were folded into little squares. He put them back in the motor oil container under the workbench, behind the carburetor that hadn't worked since 1998. He didn't lock the container. He didn't...
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  • The White Children
    The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the dirt slicker. I stood under the bridge over the L.A. River and watched the water rush by, black and fast, carrying with it all the things people had thrown away in this city that had thrown me away first. Four kids behind me in the darkness, breathing like little wolves. They weren't wolves. They were something worse. They...
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