The Fox's Grace
I.The rain in Los Angeles does not clean anything. It just makes the grime slicker.I was walking back to my apartment on East Fourth Street—three flights up, no elevator, a door that stuck if the humidity was above sixty percent—when I heard the shot. Not a firecracker. Not a car backfiring. A gun. Close. Somewhere to my left, down an alley that smelled of garbage and wet cardboard.I did not...
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