Under different circumstances, Arthur McKechnie would have been one of those people you read about in the newspaper: the schizoid boy who jumps out of a window thinking he can fly, the mad explorer who crosses the Arctic with nothing but a rucksack and a pair of crampons.

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Behind him, seagulls fly past the picture window, tugboat horns sing, and the sun sets, casting a lavender glow over the shifting waters of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge above.

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Hurl it out the window and see if the concept would fly.

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