dies and all of a sudden you become a box for them, he thought, you store these things that no one has ever seen and you go on living like that, your head a coffin to keep memories of the dead alive. But what do you do with that kind of box? Where do you put it down?

How strange to feel something so close to mercy, whatever that was, and stranger still that it should be found in here of all places, at the end of a road of ruined houses by a toxic river. That among a pile of salvaged trash, he would come closest to all he ever wanted to be: a consciousness sitting under a lightbulb reading his days away, warm

How strange to feel something so close to mercy, whatever that was, and stranger still that it should be found in here of all places, at the end of a road of ruined houses by a toxic river. That among a pile of salvaged trash, he would come closest to all he ever wanted to be: a consciousness sitting under a lightbulb reading his days away, warm

“No, eat the carrot first. Please.” She leaned forward, knife and fork on each side of the plate, a paper towel tucked in her collar. “It’s important.” He finished the carrot, then picked another from the bowl and put the whole thing in his mouth. “They’re good for you, believe me.” She cut into her latke like it was a steak and ate. “For the eyes,

“You don’t get scared?” “I’m used to it.” Russia bit his lip. “Anna’s just like my grandma. She’s strong.”

“When does anybody die?” she shrugged. “When God says Well done.”

“You wanna be a writer and you want to jump off a bridge? That’s pretty much the same thing, no? A writer just takes longer to hit the water.”

“Where do you think he is?” “Where who is?” “I mean with Antarctica and the lizards and all that. Where does somebody like Paul go when they’re done using his energy?” “Ha! My baby’s with God.” She looked at him as though willing him to believe her, as though his believing would confirm its truth. He turned his face toward the rusted power plant.

It was the kind of day where anything felt possible. As if the charity of the world had tipped, finally, to one side of the rusted scale. The kind of day where you can fill in your scars with Magic Marker and tell yourself you’re normal—and it might be true.