Humming and silence, silence and humming. It wasn’t that Alfonzo didn’t agree with Mitchell, it was just that he was afraid for them.

It wasn’t that Alfonzo didn’t want liberation. He just despaired of its possibility.

22.

There’s always something below. There’s a sole beneath toes, soil under the sole, stones supporting the soil, bugs hiding between the stones, tongues searching for the bugs, and a stomach to digest them once the hunting tongue gets ahold. Stairs lead to basements that lead to doors to subbasements. Under the subway lies the sewer. Beneath the street, power and water, cable and steam pipes spaghetti through compromised earth. Every tree twists its roots down and around the archaeological remnants from older versions of the city. Roots seek water while water finds its level, regardless of the rock and concrete that tries to block its flow.

A canal lies buried beneath Canal Street. Freshwater streams meander under luxury brownstones of the Upper West Side. Bedrock only occasionally shows itself in Central Park, like the nose of a mole or the top of an iceberg. To know one doesn’t know is the foundation of knowledge.

Just the same, there is always something above, a tree branch, an overpass, a storm pregnant with rain, the ozone layer’s fragile mist. There is always more. We animals are held exquisitely between.

Alfonzo envisioned himself on a path wrapped along a mountain. To his left rose a cliff face. On the other side was space, and a long fall to the crashing sea. He didn’t know where the narrow path led, but there was no room to turn.

There was a story about his species. It was said that when the European animals came to South America to plunder, they forced llamas and alpacas into servitude. They made them carry gold and silver down from the mountains to waiting ships. Llamas, though anguished, bore their sacks. Alpacas, however, refused. No matter how much they were beaten and kicked by the invaders, the alpacas resisted, even to the death. They would rather be cut into a thousand pieces than move against their will.

What was his choice? What could he choose? Follow the path where it leads, freeze in place, or fall. If he must go toward the unknown, Alfonzo thought, it would be his choice. He wasn’t about to be pulled or pushed. He would walk himself.

That night, Alfonzo gave Mitchell his blessing and his dissertation. He said he needed to be alone to digest.

“Take all the time you need,” Mitchell said. “When you are ready, go to the café. Pamella will know what to do.”

Alfonzo promised. They both squirmed a bit with feeling.

“I want you to know that you are my brother.” Two big tears fell from Mitchell’s eyes.

“No matter what,” Alfonzo hummed.

“You’re a good boy.”

“Ha.”

“See you?”

“Sea you soon.”