Maria had been shot. She was in very bad shape was all they would tell me over the phone. I arrived there a little past eight. A friend, a patrolman I knew, sat me down and told me that Maria was dead by the time they got her to the hospital. It had been a ride-by shooting outside the projects. No one knew why, or who could have done the shooting. We never got to say good-bye. There was no preparation, no warning at all, no explanation. The pain inside was like a steel column that extended from the center of my chest all the way up into my forehead. I thought about Maria constantly, day and
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