"Anus," said the man, "don't hit your sister."

I tried to say something, couldn't get my tongue right.

The man smiled, spoke, his voice muddy and loud.

"Hey, you," he said.

Something pressed into my side and I opened my eyes.

Predrag stood over me. He tapped my ribs with his boot.

"You," he said.

"Predrag," I said.

"Hungry?" He dropped a doughnut on my chest.

"Thanks," I said, sat up, bit into a honey-glazed. "Thank you. Wow, I was having the weirdest dream."

Predrag held up his doughnut sack.

"I like to take some around, spread the wealth, you know? I usually give them out to homeless guys. But then I saw you."

"I might be homeless one of these days."

"Yeah?"

"It's tough to call."

"You come to the store, you need help."

"That's nice of you."

"We've got to stick together," said Predrag, lifted his face to the sun.

"Who exactly are we?" I asked.

"The American Dreamers. There aren't too many of us left."

"I don't know if I qualify."

"You an American? Or want to be an American?"

"I am an American."

"You said you were having a dream."

"It's true, I did."

"Was it the one where you're inside the girl and you are pumping her and pumping her and you are so happy but then it turns out it's not a girl, it's really one of those super poisonous box jellyfish, and it stings you and you are screaming and screaming and the sky rains the diarrhea of babies?"

"The… no, I don't think so."

"I get that sometimes. Anyway, see you around."

I went home to the home that Maura said was still my home and made myself some breakfast. It had been a while since I'd been alone in the apartment. I pulled books off shelves, dug into boxes of old junk, snooped through Maura's drawers. The pills were gone. I sat on the sofa and did nothing for a good hour but sit on the sofa. I could not remember the last time I had managed such a thing.

I tried to recall the words I'd hurled at McKenzie Rayfield, the outburst that started it all. I couldn't really summon them, or at least the proper sequence. A few individual utterances returned, like "shut," and "mouth," and "spoiled" and "dreck" and "sopressatta" and "daddysauce." But most of it was gone. I was glad of it. Those words had never made me proud.

Out the window I watched a deliveryman ride up on a bicycle, buzz the house across the street. He wore a sweatshirt that read "New York Yankees 2001 World Champions." The Yankees, however, had lost the series that year. Arizona, with no regard for the national narrative, or even story, beat them in game seven. The deliveryman must have gotten the shirt in a poor country in Asia or Africa or South America, wherever they sell the runner-up crap, the memorabilia of a parallel universe, maybe the one with the gesso-smeared assistant and my name on public radio. I wondered if Sasha had learned to tip these guys yet.

I still had her cell phone number and I called her now. When she answered, it took her a moment to place me.

"Right," she said. "That guy. The envelope man. Why are you calling?"

"Just… I don't know… checking in."

"You still on some kind of mission? For Purdy?"

"I don't work for Purdy. I don't work for anybody right now."

"Got downsized?"

"Right," I said. "Cut down to size."

"Okay," said Sasha.

"I wanted to say hello," I said. "Maybe I could even… I don't know. Come up and talk about things. About all that's happened."

"You think I might ask you to squeeze my tits again."

She spoke evenly, nothing coy in her tone.

"It hadn't occurred to me."

"Liar. Anyway, you know how high I was that last time? I had to get away from Don to get my head straight. Unlike you, I do have a job now. And a guy I love. And I'm going to school."

"Don told me. That's great. I didn't call for that. I really didn't. I just wanted to talk. To ask some questions."

"What, like a detective?"

"Not really. I'm just…"

"You're a little too obsessed, is what you are. A little too involved in a situation that's got nothing to do with you."

"You're probably right. Things have been pretty tough for me."

"Believe me, mister, I don't want to hear it."

"Sorry. Well, I guess Don's heading back your way."

"I know. He called me. Like I'm up here waiting for that bastard. I've moved on. My boyfriend, Bobby, is the best thing that ever happened to me. Besides, this is probably not the best place for Don these days."

"What do you mean?"

"Things got sort of bad up here for him before we went down to the city. He had a fight with some guys at Cudahy's. You know how it is. You can bitch about the government all you want, but don't talk shit about the troops. He shot his mouth off about something or other. They really started messing with him, kicking his girls and stuff-I can't believe I still call them girls. God, he was crazy! But those guys got out of hand. They were clubbing him with pool cues."

"Was it that guy Todd? The happy warrior?"

"Todd Wilkes? You've got a good memory. No. Some of them were Todd's friends, maybe. Todd really doesn't leave his house much anymore. People say he's got PTSD really bad. And his burns, they never really got better. He's a sad case. Anyway, after those guys messed with Don at Cudahy's, Don went and got a tire iron from his car. People busted it up before it could get too bad, but Don broke one guy's ribs. A rumor went around they were planning to go after Don. And the whole thing didn't help his reputation around here. Probably why he was itching to get out in the first place. Everybody treated him nice with what happened to his mom and the injury. But then they started to wonder about him. At least the ones drinking at Cudahy's. Look, I've got to go pick up my boyfriend."

"Okay."

"You have my number in your phone?"

"Yes."

"Do me a favor. Delete it."

"Delete it?"

"Just do me the favor. Just for peace of mind. My mind. I want to start over. I don't want people like you to know where I am."

"I'm not one of those people," I said.

"Right," said Sasha. "Bye."

I did not delete her number.

I studied our block in the sun's glitter, listened to the wind in the trees, thought vaguely of Jimmy Easter. Then I watched some television. There was a movie with the male lead's father from Caller I Do. He was much younger, on a chestnut stallion, waving, or maybe brandishing a saber for the Confederacy. He loved a lady but he had no cell phone and could not save her from the Union cannon.

Maura would be home soon. Then it would be time to get Bernie at Christine's. But this really wasn't my life right now. My life was across the river. My life was in the rough patch. My life was vaporing about. But I'd be back. I belonged here.

A man sat beside me on the bus out to Nearmont. He looked about my age, with black and gray stubble on his face, a flannel shirt. He tapped a packet of guitar strings in his hands.

"Do I know you?" he said. "You look familiar."

"I don't think so," I said.

"Pat?"

"No."

"No, that's me, Pat White. You look familiar. You play music? Did you ever play with Glave Wilkerson? Spacklefinger? Out of Eastern Valley?"

"No," I said.

"Sure?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm pretty sure."

I pointed to his packet.

"You play?"

"Hells, yeah," said Pat. "Used to have a band. Alternative. You like alternative?"

"I guess."

"What they play now, that's not really alternative. My generation, maybe our generation, looking at you, we were truly alternative. My band, we played all over. We dominated the area in terms of battle of the bands and whatnot. We even beat Spacklefinger one time."