The Apartment on Elm Street
The rain started at nine. Betty knew this because she had looked out the window at nine-oh-three and seen it begin, thin and hesitant, like something that was not sure it wanted to commit. By nine-thirty it was solid. By ten it had that particular October quality that Betty had come to recognize over sixty-three years of living in Youngstown: not the dramatic rain of movies, but the tired rain...
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