I met Frank on a Tuesday in November. I was seventeen. He was sixty-eight. He lived on a boat.
The boat was docked along the East River in Queens, right next to the old warehouses that had been empty since the eighties and were slowly being turned into condos by people who would never set foot on this side of the river. The houseboat was small, white, with a canvas top that leaked when it rained. Frank had a fishing net hanging from the railing and a cooler on the stern and a chair that...
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