Finding his grave was hard in a lot of ways. I thought it would be one of the huge fabuleux ones, one of the obelisks that reached to the sky, or a stern angel. But no. I searched and searched the general vicinity on the map before it suddenly dawned on me—the row of low, square, plain graves that looked like pauper graves—that’s what marked this man who had so obviously loomed above all the other people buried here.

I started to cry a little. As I walked down the row of inconsequential graves, I spotted one that appeared to be covered in garbage. The sobbing came full-on when I realized it was his.

For a minute, the tears blurred my vision as I thought, This is it. You live your life in the hugest way, you make the most magnifique art, and this is the way it ends. Under a pauper’s grave somewhere, covered in trash. But then my eyes cleared, I saw the little items on the grave had all been placed there so lovingly. A cigarette, a paintbrush, a piece of malachite, a paper with a crude crown drawn on it that said SAMO underneath. I wondered about all the of the people who had come looking as I had come looking, who had left here all these little garbage-treasures of theirs as an offering after walking the path to the grave, and maybe even understanding him as I did. The tears started again.

I almost started crying then, on my way there in the car with Pollock, as the storm was about to descend on New York, thinking about it. But I pulled myself together. I patted Pollock’s soft fur. My therapist often says that I should pick him up when I’m sad because touch is a wonderful antidepressant. I patted him and looked at his soft brown eyes. And I started talking to the driver.

“Where will you go?” I said.

“Excuse me?” he said, turning down the radio.

“I’m sorry to pry,” I said, “but I talk to everybody, just about everybody. Where will you go when the storm hits?”

“I don’t live here in the city,” the driver said. I peered at the license in a plastic sheath on the rear of his seat. His name was Hameen. His English was slightly broken, but my wristscreen was translating what he said onto the screen so I’d have no difficulty understanding. “So I will go home.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Out in New Jersey, about an hour away. I drive to the city every day, then drive people around all day, then I drive back. Then I drive my children to their sports, then I drive my wife to her work. It seems like I live behind a car wheel sometimes.”

“You’ll be safe there?” I asked. Pollock was making low noises of happiness as I scratched behind his ears.