Home from the walk, I'm turning off lights. I can feel the switch burning the ball of my thumb, the switch plate on the backs of my fingers. I can hear the washing machine and I can see a flash of someone playing basketball under a street lamp down the road. It's the bother of the evening. This is taking me places where even now in my boldness I cannot go. I'm already a cripple here because of a paragraph I left out three sheets ago.
Three men sit around a table in a sub street apartment in Ann Arbor.