It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals when it was checked by a violent gust of wind that swept up the streets (for it is on Broadway that our scene lies), rattled along the scaffolding, and fiercely agitated the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. The creak of the decaying wood sign outside Book Culture on 114th shrieked as its rusty bolts endured another downpour—the prismatic drip of chalk markers washing away with the violent weather.
But alas, a message remains. “Your coursebooks are [redacted] here.”
