The Unlikely Saint
The first time I saw Arthur, he was screaming at a man for bleeding on his favorite rug. Arthur wasn't a doctor—at least, not the kind with a framed degree on the wall. He was a man of jagged edges and nicotine-stained fingers, operating out of a basement in Brooklyn that smelled of damp concrete and cheap antiseptic. I was nineteen, a terrified kid from the suburbs with a fascination for...
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