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It’s always darkest before the dawn. This elderly chestnut occurred to Rob Martin as the ambulance he drove rolled slowly along Upper Marlborough Street toward home base, which was Firehouse 3. It seemed to him that whoever thought that one up really got hold of something, because it was darker than a woodchuck’s asshole this morning, and dawn wasn’t far away. Not that this daybreak would be up to much even when it finally got rolling; call it dawn with a hangover.
The seeds sown in childhood put down deep roots.
