Its three oclock in the morning.

Bishops daughter is ill, stomach pains. Shes sleeping on the couch.

Bishop too is ill, chills and sweating, a flu. He cant sleep. In bed, he listens to the occasional groans from two rooms away. Katie is fifteen and spends the summer with him every year.

Outside on the street, someone kicks on a motorcycle and revs it unforgivingly. His bedroom is badly placed.

Hes given her Pepto-Bismol, if she wakes again hell try Tylenol. He wraps himself in the sheet, pulls his t-shirt away from his damp chest.

Theres a radio playing somewhere in the building, big-band music, he feels rather than hears it. The steady, friendly air-conditioner hustling in the next room.

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