A day so hot and humid and heavy that the air felt hard to breathe and and the sun sank in a flaming red ball smeared in evening haze across the river and behind the cliffs of New Jersey. Zak and I went running down to the street so I could take a picture of it but by the time we got to the wall overlooking the river, it was gone. Instead there was my bridge, smudged and indistinct as an impressionist painting, and coming out from beneath its shadow what could only be a ghost ship.
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