Thousand: Four Hundred Sixty-Four

so. Not all wuss.” He shrugs and stabs a wedge of gleaming yellow omelette. “They’re not,” Bernie hesitates. “They’re not, you know, people with leprosy, then? Lepers?” Ishmael chuckles. “Polio. Polio,” he says. “This is good ay yugg,” says the cowboy. Jump ahead to something happening. The Tomato’s escape. The mayor’s heart attack. Pink kittens squalling. Bernie rubs his eyes. He either feels wonderful, or he feels sick. He stands up, the cowboy’s hand slipping from his thigh. His head tugs at his spine like a party balloon the knot that holds it to the garden gate. “I,” Bernie says,