The Lighthouse at Dawn's Edge
The whiskey in Hal's glass had been poured three hours ago and was now the color of old coins. He sat in the corner of a Brooklyn bar that smelled of spilled beer and regret, listening to a jazz band play something that sounded like hope trying very hard not to sound like hope. It was March 1929, and Hal Whitfield was twenty-seven years old and completely finished. He had been a broker on Wall...
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