Thousand: Two Hundred Ninety-Two

put her house in order, Rhea finished for him. My house is not in order. Won’t you help me? Did I help her? The spiritual rain doesn’t bother the pigeon blinking sleepily, nestled on Samuel’s chest where he lies under the crossing shadows of a parking meter, each shadow from a different street lamp. The spiritual rain doesn’t bother Samuel either. The nausea has passed, though he still feels a bit wired. All this duplication of realities is more trouble than existence ought to go to, it seems to me. “Excuse me, sir?” A little girl leans over him. “Are