The truck had no licence plates and no driver. Silas Morrison found it parked in an alley off 125th Street, its rear doors hanging open like a wound.
He was twenty-eight, the son of Irish immigrants, and he had spent the last five years running a clinic in Harlem that nobody wanted him to run. The health department called it unlicensed practice. The medical board called it dangerous. Silas called it necessary. When the hospitals would not treat the poor, when the doctors refused to touch the people who lived three streets from where he...
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