Beneath the Bridge
The first time Frankie O'Connor noticed it, he thought it was a plane. Not that it looked like a plane. Planes had lights and engines and wings. This was just a line of light, faint as a thread, hanging in the sky above the Hudson River. It was steady—didn't flicker, didn't move, didn't do anything planes do—and Frankie knew planes, because he'd spent thirty years building bridges and ships and...
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