The Artwork of Dying | The New Yorker
 

The rehab was crowded with crack addicts, a few of them felons. I used to be the uncommon middle-aged, middle-class white man within the joint. It was loud in any respect hours. Scared, I couldnâ??t sleep. I advised Brooke, on the constructingâ??s pay telephone, that I needed to get out. She mentioned, â??Cope,â?* and hung …

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