The black fox appeared on Edgar Molloy's third night of insomnia.
He was standing at his bedroom window in the Dublin townhouse his family had occupied for four generations, watching the rain streak the glass and blur the gas lamps of Merrion Square into smears of amber light. He had not slept properly in weeks. The pills the doctor prescribed made him dream in colours he could not name. The wine made him dream in faces he could not forget. And the silence of...
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