By B.P. Greenbaum
August 17, 1962
Pittsburgh melted. Carolyn Martin became convinced that, just like a pat of butter in a hot pan, it would soon slide right into Ohio. The heat wave showed no signs of abating, and all the girls at Cane Street House were glazed by it. Breakfast felt atypically quiet; their faces glistened at the table that morning, so many bellies like watermelons. But it was a traditional Friday, fish day, and the day of departure. Empty, Carolyn and Angeline would be leaving.
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