The Wistful Campus
The rain in Chicago did not wash the city clean; it merely slicked the grime into a darker, more cohesive sheen that clung to the wool of Eleanor Fairchild’s coat as she walked through the grey expanse of the North Side, her breath hitching in short, sharp gasps that fogged the air before her face. She was an investigator for the Department of Urban Planning, a title that sounded far more...
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