Fiction | September 23, 2014

This isn’t a very nice story, but I feel I should tell it because at the time of the assault I lived six houses away from Dawn, and she had so much to say I thought I’d never hear the end of it. It’s as if, in some sense, I owe it to her to pass the tale along—especially after I heard more about the whole thing just the other day, that is, some fifteen years later, when I was back in Washington, DC, for a visit, I’m not sure why. I guess just to see what had happened to Mount Pleasant, the neighborhood where I lived for twenty-odd years, a neighborhood in a city now famous for stalemate, a city that celebrates its inability to move forward. Ironic, you see, given the nature of the assault.

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