The small glass tumbler leaves a wet ring behind on the dark wooden desk as he picks it up. He thinks to himself — If an ice cube clinks inside a glass of rye and no one is around to hear it, am I even drinking?
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Morgan gets off the elevator and enters the office. Dressed in his tracksuit, he’s sweaty and frantic from searching all night for Dr. L. She wasn’t in the apartment, and The American Girl Cafe is only doing curbside pickup.
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