Is there a pulse? A group of mid-afternoon shoppers, bags offering liberal padding between hip and hip, crowded around the body–is it a body? Yes, it’s a body, black blood pooling at the wrist and behind the ears, a body, or something resembling a body. There’s been an accident, someone said. Two mothers leashed their hands around their son’s chins, a dog in a tartan cardigan sniffed the pavement. It was cold. A day more like early winter rather than the late fall evidenced in leaves and sharp sky. Someone looked up, as if more authors might fall. What is happening to us? Everything is coming apart, a waiter said, taking the opportunity to light up and stretch. Where had the author come from? What was the author doing? Trying to fly, someone said. Maybe walking on air, one of the boys said, pulling at his mother’s hands. Maybe the author believed it was air, another said. Has anyone called 911 a small girl asked. Then, yes, we have called 911, long ago, they are taking forever to come.

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