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The Cure by Robert Reed Francis Holiday had always been a mid-list author, which meant he was a marginal author—one of a multitude of competent and sometimes more than competent wordsmiths who eke out a livelihood on the fringes of the publishing world. In a professional life spanning three decades, Francis had written twenty novels and published thirteen of those, acquiring a string of mostly favorable reviews as well as a puddle of fans whose chief complaint was that his work was never in print for long. Two ex-wives shared similar critiques when it came to his success, or the lack of it. There also was a grown son who hadn't spoken to his father in years and a twelve- year-old daughter who barely knew the man, and as a consequence, worshipped him. The most stable presence in Francis's life was his agent, an overworked gentleman who was considered something of a patron saint to mid-list authors. But their relationship came to a gruesome end while the agent was arguing with a particularly notorious editor, shouting at his cell phone as he stepped into a busy crosswalk, and a gypsy cab driven by a partially blind Serb swept him off his feet, leaving his hip shattered and his brain in a vegetative state. For the second time in his professional life, Francis needed to find |
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