Fleeing the Sun
The saxophone was screaming. Not in pain—in triumph. It rose from the地下 club on Forty-second Street like smoke from a fire that nobody wanted to put out, and Tom Caraway sat in the back booth with a glass of warm beer and a torn page from an astronomical journal pressed flat against the table. He was twenty-eight years old and had been in America four years. Four years since he'd stepped off...
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