The Man on 4th Street
I had lived across the hall from Old Man Silas for three years and I knew almost nothing about him. I knew his name was Silas—I'd seen it on his mail, a thick stack of envelopes from places like "Des Moines, Iowa" and "Tucson, Arizona" that he never seemed to open. I knew he was old—seventy, maybe seventy-two—because his hands shook when he poured coffee and he referred to things from "back in...
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