In the Hand She Had Not Yet Become
The room on 113th Street was small and smelled of other people's cooking. Rose O'Connor had been in New York for three months and had not yet learned to call it home. Home was a word she had used about places she was leaving—Brooklyn at eight, Geneva at twenty-two, Algiers at twenty-seven, Saigon at thirty-four. Home was always somewhere behind her, and now, at forty, she was tired of looking...
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