The Wistful Voyage
Everyone in the outer boroughs knows that the dead do not leave; they just stop paying rent. Frank Ledbetter stood in the doorway of his apartment, the air heavy with wet wool and old paper, holding the framed military discharge of a man who had died forty years ago. It was November, but the heat was a physical weight, a warm spell that made the windows steam up like breath on glass. He was...
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