The fire started in the basement at 3:14 AM on a Tuesday in October, 1973.
Marcus Johnson knew this because he had been awake. Not because of anything supernatural—just the usual insomnia that came from living in a neighborhood where the nights were louder than the days. He was sitting on the fire escape of his third-floor walk-up in East Harlem, smoking a cigarette and listening to the city breathe. Then he smelled it. Smoke. Thick, oily, wrong. He dropped the...
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