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Iain Mavro Coggins's Writings

The sun burst into the room like an angry parent, waking Frank where he lay on the sofa surrounded by stacks of unopened mail, pizza boxes, and an empty bottle of cheap Cabernet.  Raising himself up, he dug for his phone in the cushions, finding it stuffed half-inside a Fritos bag.  Checking the time, he scrolled the headlines.  The White Ravens...