The Herb of Compassion
The gunshot cracked through the Harlem night like fire breaking through thin paper. I was two blocks from my garden plot on 135th Street, gathering evening primrose under the orange glow of a streetlamp, when I heard it. Then I heard screaming. I ran toward the sound, my satchel of herbs swinging against my hip, and found a woman in a tattered white mink coat lying in an alley between a...
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