Thousand: Four Hundred Forty-NIne

said and pulled up his pants. He hasn’t told the innkeeper (“Call me Ishmael!”) about the spider. He is just hoping what he is eating is what it looks like. That the omelette is made of eggs. That the ham is ham and not, oh, human, say. The wheat toast provides yeoman support for the homemade jam. Everything, he can’t but admit, is heavenly. Sweeter, richer, more complex, more interesting to nose and palate than anything they’ve come to before. He closes his eyes and lives a few lives in a mouthful. When he opens his eyes he sees a