The Pale Garden
Act I Edna Yancey had been a private-duty nurse for twelve years, a fact that meant she knew exactly how the body failed, specifically the way the joints stiffened before the fever broke, and the specific, dry rattle of a lung filling with fluid. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of damp, heavy day where the fog rolled up from the river and clung to the wire fences like wet wool. She stood...
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