The Healing Hands
The neon sign of the Cotton Club flickered across the wet pavement of 125th Street, casting a pink glow over the puddles where jazz spilled from open doorways like liquid gold. It was 1925, and Harlem breathed with a rhythm that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with survival.Dr. Julian Callahan wiped his hands on a linen towel and looked at the knee before him. Willie Brown...
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