The Thing on the Table
Danny O'Connell was thirty-one and he lived in a third-floor apartment in Youngstown, Ohio, above a laundromat that ran twenty-four hours and smelled permanently of lint and bleach. His father died last winter—lung cancer, smoked for forty years, that's what the doctor said, like that explained anything. His mother left when he was twelve—went to a mechanic in Indianapolis, didn't come back. He...
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