Death Comes for the Fat Man

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never much of a street west-the old wool mill a prison block in dry blood brick its staring windows now blinded by boards its clatter and chatter a distant echo through white-haired heads east-six narrow houses under one weary roof huddling against the high embankment that arrows southern trains into the city’s northern heart few passengers ever notice Mill Street never much of a street in winter’s depth a cold crevasse spring and autumn much the same but occasionally on a still summer day with sun soaring high in a cloudless sky Mill Street becomes desert canyon overbrimming with heat