The Pale Tower
The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the asphalt into a black mirror that reflects the shattered neon of the city back up at you. I drove the sedan down State Street with the wipers beating a frantic, mechanical rhythm, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, the court-ordered eviction notice for the Whitmore family folded in my breast pocket...
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