The Gilded Callahan
Act I The train hissed into Union Station and the steam swallowed Thomas Callahan whole. He stood on the platform in a coat that belonged to a man three inches taller and six years younger, and breathed Chicago air that smelled of Lake Michigan and coal smoke and something deeper — the sour sweetness of a city drunk on its own prosperity. He had not wanted to come back. Over the Somme, watching...
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