The Wistful Grid
The rain against the plexiglass windshield of the patrol car sounded like static, a low, ceaseless hiss that filled the silence between us, a sound that seemed to erode the very fabric of the night, blurring the sharp, neon-lit edges of the city into a watercolor smear of gray and indigo. I sat in the passenger seat, my hands resting on my knees, fingers interlaced in a tight, rigid knot,...
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