The Unwanted Inheritance
The rain in New York does not fall. It arrives, like an accusation, all at once, and then it is done. Jack Callahan sat in his office on West 44th Street and watched it hit the window with the kind of resignation that comes from fifteen years of telling himself that this city is the only place he has ever belonged and then realizing, at some point between 3 AM and dawn, that belonging and...
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