conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Donovan, George, Parkman with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'The Wolves of Fairmount Park'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Wolves of Fairmount Park
  Tisa moved to the edge of the porch and lifted the hair off the back of her neck because it was hot inside and she was sweating a little, and Mia followed, digging in her bag for her smokes and bringing out two. A single moth ticked against the porch light. Tisa watched Mia screwing up her face to see the end of the cigarette, and it always made her laugh when she was high, which she was a little.
  Michael Donovan's father, Brendan, was getting in his car at the Roundhouse at Eighth and Race, the Police Administration Building that was supposed to look like a big pair of handcuffs, and wondering if he was doing the right thing asking to get off the street. He sat in the car and watched motorcycle cops come and go and thought about his own father standing on a chair at the Shamrock and toasting Brendan in his new uniform the day he graduated from the academy. The only time he could remember the old man really drunk, his eyes shining and rimmed pink. The place was full of cops, the guys the old man had worked with, the stone-faced Irish and Italian guys who voted for Rizzo because he was one of them, the guys Brendan thought of as his uncles.
  The woman's eyes were guarded, hard to read, but she nodded. So then Danny knew she was his to take home with him, and something wasn't right about that. The woman was tall, and her hair was a hard, opaque red, like plastic, and she smiled shyly at him, but it wasn't like she was attracted to him. It was more like she was afraid. Danny was wondering how many more vodkas it would take for him not to care, how many more to shut off that voice in the back of his head that said he was being played. Being moved as if by magnets under the floor. When the cell phone went off, he was relieved. Now he could make excuses and get away from Asa. Get his head straight and get back in the game.
  George Parkman Sr. was leaving his girlfriend's apartment on the river, wiping his mouth compulsively like he always did, trying to erase the perfumed waxy residue of her lipstick and wishing the wind would pick up and blow the smell of her out of his suit jacket. Telling himself he'd stop coming here. Call her and end it. Give her a few bucks, help her get set up with that store she was always talking about opening, Jesus, whatever, he had too much at risk to be so fucking dumb.
  It was just that out on the floor at the plant, the metal stamping shop out on Rising Sun Avenue he had inherited from his father, he could feel his life going by in a rush. That green light that made them all look like they were dying, all the guys in their blue shirts and safety glasses and the smell of the cutting fluid that used to smell like money to him and now it felt like he was drowning in it. Home was no better, with a strange, delicate son he didn't know and Francine telling him the same story every night about her mother's cataracts or some shit. So he needed something real in his hands, someone he could hold on to who looked back at him with eyes that weren't lined with disappointment at what the money never bought. Was that a crime? Was that a sin? Was it?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Chris had a briefcase under one arm, and he stood talking to Gerry for a minute in the rain, his shoulders hunched, before Gerry punched him lightly on the arm and turned to the front door, his hand on something at his waist. They squared themselves to the door like gunfighters and went in, Gerry stopping to slowly push the old barricade aside where it had been loosened to let them in.
  Then the street was empty and quiet for a while. The music changed at the party up the street, the drumming faster, louder, and there was a cry, maybe the sound of one dancer encouraging another. Frank's car reappeared on Fairmount, coming back west toward Broad, and he edged it to the curb and idled, killing the lights. Angel took his hands off the rifle one at a time and wiped them on his shirt under his jacket. He waited, staring at the empty face of the old hotel.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He waited, staring at the empty face of the old hotel.. Angel took his hands off the rifle one at a time and wiped them on his shirt under his jacket. Frank's car reappeared on Fairmount, coming back west toward Broad, and he edged it to the curb and idled, killing the lights. The music changed at the party up the street, the drumming faster, louder, and there was a cry, maybe the sound of one dancer encouraging another.
  Then the street was empty and quiet for a while. They squared themselves to the door like gunfighters and went in, Gerry stopping to slowly push the old barricade aside where it had been loosened to let them in.Chris had a briefcase under one arm, and he stood talking to Gerry for a minute in the rain, his shoulders hunched, before Gerry punched him lightly on the arm and turned to the front door, his hand on something at his waist
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Drink from the river and wait for the faint, answering howl.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He cut hard and headed north, feeling the fabric give and the heat of the dog's open mouth. Across the park he could see a couple playing tennis and hear cars moving on the river drives. The dog lost its footing, skidded, but got traction on the asphalt path and shot after him, making a noise deep in its throat that sounded like desire.
  He ran hard, past statues and across a wide street, and the dog kept pace. Tongue out, a low modulated whine in its throat like it was trying to communicate something intricate. Orlando panted, openmouthed, crossing lanes and passing strolling couples and people on bikes. The sun was getting lower, and when he tried to cut back east, to circle around toward the rehab again, the dog anticipated him and swung wide to his right, barking and going at his heels, as if it were herding him north and west.
  If he kept going that way, he knew, eventually he'd hit the river and then he could swim. Pictured it, broad strokes and white wings of water over his shoulders. Leaving the city behind, heading out toward the Main Line. Toward Zoe, maybe, out there somewhere in the Tudor castle where she'd grown up, behind high walls he'd scale to get to her. Or he could just keep going out of the city, wander south and west into the fields and along farm roads that lead one to the other and where he didn't know anyone.
  He looked back and the dog was lagging, so he slowed, and then it wasn't a chase, but something else. Maybe they'd run together until the sun went down, and then they'd walk. Maybe the dog was his now; maybe that was the way it worked and you had to tear at someone a little to belong to them. He could see that and laugh, let everything go and just put one foot down and then another. Cross the fields that smelled like grass, into the shaded cemetery that smelled like stones and water. Keep going, into the woods to get lost among the trees as the world went black. Disappear but for white teeth and yellow eyes. Bay and whine and snap at the dark. Drink from the river and wait for the faint, answering howl.