Fiction | June 01, 2001
Hannigan's Woods
Robert Solomon
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In October he spent a good part of each day on the roof. In the mornings he’d go up there wrapped in an old army blanket with a thermos of coffee and sit at the edge, looking out at Lefreniere’s Island or at the Adirondacks across the bay. He’d remember the old days in the fall, his father taking them down the highway in the sky-blue Electra convertible, the top back and the mountains looming ahead like a great lidless box filled with a thousand crayon tips of red and orange and yellow.
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