The rain in Los Angeles does not cleanse. It makes everything slicker, darker, more treacherous. It turns the streets into mirrors that reflect nothing worth seeing.
I found the dog on a Tuesday, which is significant because Tuesdays are the day of the week that nobody remembers, the day that falls between Monday's desperation and Wednesday's faint hope, and that is probably why the dog was there—trapped behind a collapsed pallet behind a warehouse on East LA, bleeding into the gutter, making a sound that nobody in that neighborhood would stop for. But I...
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