The city didn't end with a bang. It ended the way most things end in New York—with a whisper, a phone call that never came back, and the slow dawning realization that nobody was coming to fix it.
I found out about the White Heat on a Friday. I was sitting on the steps of a bodega on Houston Street, splitting a bag of chips with a kid named Ray who was twelve and had already lost his mother to the coughing sickness that had been moving through the Lower East Side all month. The bodega owner, Mr. Park, didn't open the shop that morning. He didn't open it the next day either. By Sunday,...
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