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342 West Twentieth Street, New York
Saturday, August 2, 2003, 10:30 P.M.
In the weeks since the accident, I’ve kept away from the constellation of friends who knew and loved my brother, Samuel. If our paths did happen to cross, they managed to say, “It’s a miracle you survived, John,” in tones suggesting the opposite.
I wore that one dark moment on the highway like a red-hot brand.
To avoid any more chance meetings, I arrived at Hal Vanderlin’s party deliberately late, hoping the crowd had already melted away. I wouldn’t