Novel

The day had not been kind to Selbridge Kahn. Every moment since dawn had prevented anonymity. The day had framed when he needed it to mask. It was like the pointer his teachers had used to emphasize a, well, point. When, he wondered, would night finally come?  And when it did, would the city be bright as noon from a beaming moon? Would its pulsating neon make his face as vivid as the ubiquitous advertisements for Prell? Perhaps one of the lines that still ran the ancient subway trains would supply an electrically challenged car to swath him in darkness. Yes, that would do nicely.

But what now?

It was only one pm.

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