The子弹 went through James O'Connor's chest at eleven minutes to midnight on a Tuesday in March, 1924. He was sitting in the back room of Mama Rosa's soup kitchen on Mott Street, helping her fold flour sacks, thinking about soup recipes.
Two bullets. Same place where the gas had torn him open at Meuse-Argonne, seventeen months earlier. The doctors had pulled the shrapnel out but told him his lung would never fully inflate. He knew it was true—he could feel the missing piece in his chest every time he took a deep breath, every time he stood on a soapbox and shouted about eight-hour shifts and living wages. The man who shot him...
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