The Story That Ate Itself at the End of the Suburban Century
Arthur Pendleton was a man who sold other people stories for a living, which was fine by him until the day he realized his own life had begun to read like one of his own scripts. He worked out of a glass-walled office at the twenty-third floor of a building on West Main Street in Stamford, Connecticut, where the fluorescent lights hummed at a frequency that made your teeth ache if you sat there...
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