The child died on a Tuesday, and Dr. Elias Thornfield stood over the small warm body in the bed that occupied half his waiting room, wondering how something so small could carry so much unsolved mathematics.
Harlem, 1924. The rent party downstairs had just reached its peak — somebody's piano was playing stride with the ferocity of people who needed to forget that tomorrow was Wednesday — and Elias could hear the muffled bass line through the floorboards while he pressed his stethoscope against a chest that had stopped listening. He was thirty-two years old, second-generation Irish American, and he...
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