I was in the bar reading periodicals while waiting for a slow friend, suspecting that The New Yorker might just be a rag in which rich people sublimate each other’s money on the astral plane. But it’s how I found out about her. All the news was routine, tales of the big men and the little guys, but one right turn led me to something else entirely, a feature about a siren-saint named Katie Crutchfield.
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