The Distant Metropolis
The deed was wet, the paper soft and pulpy in my hands, the ink running in blue rivers down the crease where I had folded it into a tight square. I sat on the damp brick of the alley wall, the cold seeping through my trousers, and watched the rain blur the neon sign of the liquor store across the street until it was nothing but a smear of red light. I needed the money. My mother’s care at St....
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