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Chris Hale, of Tampa, Florida, worked on Wall Street and was a freelance journalist before deciding to devote herself to writing fiction, something she’d wanted to do since the age of six. “Some of us,” she says, “take longer than others to figure out what we’re doing here.”
Since Karen left me, my evenings are quiet and predictable. No longer does she greet me the moment I open the front door with her wiry silence, unnerving as eye contact with a tiger pacing its cage.
February 1994Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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