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5min chapter
David Rabe Reads John Updike
The New Yorker: Fiction
A Boy's Death, a Little Card
Plaucet's mother had often looked out of hers into that courtyard. The hole in the ground is still there, but I believe they fenced it off, too dangerous. A boy drowned 20 or so years ago. Faucet remembered the local expression going back for regressing for turning senile. It excited him to be outdoors in the cool misty night again on the deeply familiar street.
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