Thousand: Two Hundred Fifty-Eight

since. Since. Since he got up this morning? Samuel doesn’t look up again. If that is him, a statue for birds to rest and shit on, then it’s a version of him he feels no loyalty to. Ed’s hand steadies him. Samuel runs his free hand through his hair. It’s clean. The pigeon opens its wings again to balance itself, not apparently disturbed to find its inanimate roost walking about. When they get to street level Ed stops at a sidewalk coffee bar and picks up doughnuts, two tall lattes, and a packet of pretzels. Samuel doesn’t like doughnuts. But