sprawled out on his back on the tar-and-pea-gravel roof.
The stars above his head swirled.
He put on his headphones and turned on his iPod. Tunes. The tunes would stabilize him.
He lost track of time.
Maybe he’d been there three minutes or three hours.
He checked the luminescent dial on his watch, but immediately forgot what it said.
Gotta go clean the museum. Gotta go get stuff done.
He shoved himself to his feet and went back inside. Instead of using the stairs, he took the service elevator down to the basement level, where he’d left his supplies.
He dug out his insulated lunch bag and began eating everything in it.
Maybe if he ate enough he’d come down.
Pretty soon his chicken sandwich was gone. The chips were gone. His diet soda was gone, along with a giant peanut-butter cookie he’d picked up at the gas station near his house. Now he was stuffed, stoned, but still thinking about food.
Something chocolate would be nice. . . .
He pulled out his duty list.
Buff the floors.
Shit. He didn’t feel like doing that. It was hard enough when he was straight. The buffer had a mind of its own, and sometimes it got away from him. He’d do it tomorrow. Maybe he’d just drag the dry mop across the floors tonight.
That’s what he did.
And became absorbed in the rhythmic pattern of the red mop sliding across the maple floor, the contrast of deep red against the pale wood, the way the handle’s shadow shifted from right to left as he swept, stark and sharp.
The shadow vanished.
Had a bulb gone out? Then he realized something was blocking the light. His own body?
With mop handle in hand, he shifted slightly.
Nothing changed.
Something wrong.
Something very wrong.
And yet he didn’t want to turn and look behind him. If somebody was back there he didn’t want him to know he was onto him.
He casually shut off his iPod. Then sweep, sweep, sweep.
Turn and look.
Nothing.
Nobody.
He swung back around. Something still blocked the light.
He wanted to run. He wanted to get the hell out of there. Instead, he forced himself to walk around.
He checked the restrooms. He checked the storage closet. The last place he looked was the new room.
He let out a gasp and dropped the mop. He took two steps back, his mouth hanging open. Son of a bitch.
Gloria Raymond woke up, tossed back the covers, and got out of bed. Without putting on shoes or a coat, without pulling up her hair or even covering it with a hat, she walked out the front door, then down the sidewalk to the center of the street.
A mile took her through the park and through vacant lots and woodland, across railroads tracks and broken glass. Feeling no pain, her feet cut and bleeding enough to leave footprints, she walked to the levee and climbed the chain-link fence that had been put up last year when a three-year-old had drowned. Her pink cotton nightgown snagged and ripped as she dropped to the other side.
Even though she would be seventy-five next month, she jumped nimbly to the bobbing dock and walked to the end that jutted out into the Wisconsin River.
The moon reflected off the surface.
A full moon, round like a face. The water rippled, creating a pretty, repeating design that was mesmerizing.
Under the surface of the water Gloria saw her husband smiling up at her, his eyes wide open. He reached for her hand, and she reached back. . . .
Evan followed the skin to Old Tuonela, where crumbling buildings had been reclaimed by nature. The skin collapsed in a dark corner near a stone wall.
Evan finally understood.
He jabbed the shovel in the ground and began digging.
Rachel couldn’t sleep.
She kept dreaming that someone was in her apartment. She would awaken with a jolt, lie there and listen to the ticking clock, then go back to sleep, only to have it happen again. The dream itself was so real that even after waking up she felt a presence and imagined the sound of breathing coming from nearby.
Earlier in the day the mayor had sent a crew over
The stars above his head swirled.
He put on his headphones and turned on his iPod. Tunes. The tunes would stabilize him.
He lost track of time.
Maybe he’d been there three minutes or three hours.
He checked the luminescent dial on his watch, but immediately forgot what it said.
Gotta go clean the museum. Gotta go get stuff done.
He shoved himself to his feet and went back inside. Instead of using the stairs, he took the service elevator down to the basement level, where he’d left his supplies.
He dug out his insulated lunch bag and began eating everything in it.
Maybe if he ate enough he’d come down.
Pretty soon his chicken sandwich was gone. The chips were gone. His diet soda was gone, along with a giant peanut-butter cookie he’d picked up at the gas station near his house. Now he was stuffed, stoned, but still thinking about food.
Something chocolate would be nice. . . .
He pulled out his duty list.
Buff the floors.
Shit. He didn’t feel like doing that. It was hard enough when he was straight. The buffer had a mind of its own, and sometimes it got away from him. He’d do it tomorrow. Maybe he’d just drag the dry mop across the floors tonight.
That’s what he did.
And became absorbed in the rhythmic pattern of the red mop sliding across the maple floor, the contrast of deep red against the pale wood, the way the handle’s shadow shifted from right to left as he swept, stark and sharp.
The shadow vanished.
Had a bulb gone out? Then he realized something was blocking the light. His own body?
With mop handle in hand, he shifted slightly.
Nothing changed.
Something wrong.
Something very wrong.
And yet he didn’t want to turn and look behind him. If somebody was back there he didn’t want him to know he was onto him.
He casually shut off his iPod. Then sweep, sweep, sweep.
Turn and look.
Nothing.
Nobody.
He swung back around. Something still blocked the light.
He wanted to run. He wanted to get the hell out of there. Instead, he forced himself to walk around.
He checked the restrooms. He checked the storage closet. The last place he looked was the new room.
He let out a gasp and dropped the mop. He took two steps back, his mouth hanging open. Son of a bitch.
Gloria Raymond woke up, tossed back the covers, and got out of bed. Without putting on shoes or a coat, without pulling up her hair or even covering it with a hat, she walked out the front door, then down the sidewalk to the center of the street.
A mile took her through the park and through vacant lots and woodland, across railroads tracks and broken glass. Feeling no pain, her feet cut and bleeding enough to leave footprints, she walked to the levee and climbed the chain-link fence that had been put up last year when a three-year-old had drowned. Her pink cotton nightgown snagged and ripped as she dropped to the other side.
Even though she would be seventy-five next month, she jumped nimbly to the bobbing dock and walked to the end that jutted out into the Wisconsin River.
The moon reflected off the surface.
A full moon, round like a face. The water rippled, creating a pretty, repeating design that was mesmerizing.
Under the surface of the water Gloria saw her husband smiling up at her, his eyes wide open. He reached for her hand, and she reached back. . . .
Evan followed the skin to Old Tuonela, where crumbling buildings had been reclaimed by nature. The skin collapsed in a dark corner near a stone wall.
Evan finally understood.
He jabbed the shovel in the ground and began digging.
Rachel couldn’t sleep.
She kept dreaming that someone was in her apartment. She would awaken with a jolt, lie there and listen to the ticking clock, then go back to sleep, only to have it happen again. The dream itself was so real that even after waking up she felt a presence and imagined the sound of breathing coming from nearby.
Earlier in the day the mayor had sent a crew over
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