The rain in New York does not clean things. It makes them wetter.
Jack Donovan stood at the window of his apartment on West 47th Street and watched the water run down the glass in thick brown streaks, carrying with it the grime of a city that had never been clean and never would be. Inside the apartment, the radiator clanked and hissed and produced about as much heat as a disappointed sigh. Sarah was coughing in the other room. Tommy was asleep, or pretending...
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