You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

T
1
The Hurricane
here was an old Jew who lived at the site of the old synagogue up on
Chicken Hill in the town of Pottstown, Pa., and when Pennsylvania
State Troopers found the skeleton at the bottom of an old well off Hayes
Street, the old Jew’s house was the first place they went to. This was in June
1972, the day after a developer tore up the Hayes Street lot to make way for
a new townhouse development.
We found a belt buckle and a pendant in the well, the cops said, and
some old threads—from a red costume or jacket, that’s what the lab shows.
They produced a piece of jewelry, handed it to him, and asked what it
was.
A mezuzah, the old man said.
It matches the one on the door, the cops said. Don’t these things belong
on doors?
The old man shrugged. Jewish life is portable, he said.
The inscription on the back says “Home of the Greatest Dancer in the
World.” It’s in Hebrew. You speak Hebrew?
Do I look like I speak Swahili?
Answer the question. You speak Hebrew or not?
I bang my head against it sometimes.
And you’re Malachi the dancer, right? That’s what they say around here.
They say you’re a great dancer.
Used to be. I gave that up forty years ago.
What about the mezuzah? It matches the one here. Wasn’t this the Jewish
temple?
It was.
Who owns it now?
Who owns everything around here? the old man said. He nodded at the
immense gleaming private school seen through the dim window. The Tucker
School. It sat proudly atop the hill behind wrought-iron gates, with smooth
lawns, tennis courts, and shiny classroom buildings, a monstrous bastion of
arrogant elegance, glowing like a phoenix above the ramshackle
neighborhood of Chicken Hill.
They been trying to buy me out for thirty years, the old man said.
He grinned at the cops, but he was practically toothless, save for a single
yellow tooth that hung like a clump of butter from his top gum, which made
him look like an aardvark.
You’re a suspect, they said.
Suspect shuspect, he said with a shrug. He was well north of eighty,
wearing an old gray vest, a rumpled white shirt holding several old pens in
the vest pocket, a wrinkled tallit around his shoulders, and equally rumpled
old pants, but when he reached inside his pants pocket, his gnarled hands
moved with such deftness and speed that the state troopers, who spent most
days ticketing tractor-trailers on nearby Interstate 76 and impressing pretty
housewives during traffic stops with their bubble-gum lights and stern
lectures about public safety, panicked and stepped back, their hands on
their weapons. But the old man produced nothing more than several pens.
He offered the cops one.
No thanks, they said.
They milled around for a while longer and eventually left, promising to
return after they pulled the skeleton out of the well and studied the potential
murder scene some more. They never did, though, because the next day God
wrapped His hands around Chicken Hill and wrung His last bit of justice
out of that wretched place. Hurricane Agnes came along and knocked the
power out of four counties. The nearby Schuylkill River rose to a height of
seven feet. To hear the old black women of Chicken Hill tell it, white folks