The Garden of Strangers
I.The roses at Central Park's southern edge were in late bloom—petals brown and wilting, stems bent under the weight of November rain. James O'Connor, twenty-seven, Irish immigrant and longshoreman's helper, ran the path anyway. Running was how he kept his mind from running to Mary, God rest her soul, and to Patrick, six years old and coughing blood into a rag that his father washed and...
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