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Howie Good |
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Police and Questions |
Identity |
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One day it just happens, a man I never met before, or wanted to meet, mistakes me for someone else, an old classmate’s adopted brother, and that night for the first time I can distinguish individual words in the buzz of background conversation, after which it happens a lot, people stop me on the concourse to ask if I am who they think I am, and when I look into their faces, the slanting, slate gray rain, some have the eyes of victims, some, the eyes of torturers.
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