The Frequency of Rain
The rain in Manhattan didn't fall so much as it hovered, a perpetual grey mist that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Jack Morane had lived with it for thirty-four years and still couldn't say whether he preferred it or hated it. Probably both. Probably neither. He just dealt with it, the way he dealt with everything. He was behind the bar at the time, pouring a whiskey for a man in a...
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