The Woman Without Hands
The rain in New York does not wash things clean. It makes everything worse. It turns the soot on the sidewalks to a black paste that sticks to your shoes, your pants, your soul. Ellen Corwin knew this better than most. She had been walking for eleven hours. Her right arm was a memory. Her left arm ended in a stump that had stopped bleeding two days ago, when the cold had frozen the wounds shut....
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