“The sun was rising over the Hudson River, turning the water an oily pink, and the trees in Riverside Park stood silently, motionless, in the chill autumn air. He inhaled deeply, his olfactory sense working through the trackless forest of city smells: the tar and diesel coming off the water, dampness from the park, the sour reek of the streets. He turned the corner, then paused. In the rising light, the short street was deserted. One block over, he could hear the sounds of traffic on Broadwa...y, see the faint light from the shops. But here it was very quiet. Most of the buildings on the street were abandoned. His own building, in fact, stood beside a site where, many years before, a small riding ring for Manhattan’s wealthiest young ladies had been. The ring was long gone, of course, but in its place stood a small, unnamed service drive off the main trunk of Riverside, which served to insulate his building from traffic. The island formed by the service drive sported grass and trees, and a statue of Joan of Arc.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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