Blue-Notes-on-a-Brass-Train_html
The wall between Section 26 and Section 7 had been there for seventeen years, and for seventeen years, nobody had tapped on it. Until I did. I tapped in the rhythm my mother used to tap when she was cooking—three quick strikes, a pause, two slow ones, a pause, three quick again. It was a rhythm from Brooklyn, from before the train, from when I lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat...
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