The Engine That Eats
Marcus Chen's cab smelled like wet pavement and stale coffee, which in Manhattan is basically the same as saying it smelled like home. He was parked on 72nd and Broadway, watching the rain hit the windshield in diagonal streaks, listening to a passenger complain about traffic on 5th Avenue like the end of the world had anything to do with her commute. It didn't. Not yet. His old NASA radio — a...
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