Simon glares at it. He tries to jump and climb the fence but he can’t. He jumps again and his fingers graze the top. One more time. He manages to get a hand on the bottom edge but the tying wire rips into his flesh. He swears and stands, trying to get his balance. His stomach protests and he doubles over with dry heaves.

He looks at the sign again and musters all the spit he can, pulling as much moisture from his destroyed body as possible, and spits over the fence. It lands in the center of the sign. He looks up and down the block for a break in the fence but it is newly strung. There is no give, and in keeping with the times they have trimmed the top with razor wire like lace on a dress hem. “Goddamn,” he says. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and turns south, but spins to face the building again. “Fuck you,” he says. Drawing out the words slowly. “Fuck. You.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a patrol car turn onto Third Avenue from Tenth Street. Simon limps toward Franklin. The cruiser passes him and by the time he crosses I-94 it is gone.

He rests again, trying not to puke, and a car pulls up to the curb next to him. His vision is blurred from the fever and pain but he sees it is a Delta 88. He looks back down at his feet, not wanting to know more. The door opens.

“Hey, mister. Hey you, get in.”

Simon looks and sees a brown car curbside. The woman driving it is leaning across the front seat. She studies him, first his one shod foot, the short jeans. She moves her eyes to the skin of his face, the strength of his hands. As always, whether at work driving the cab or studying at the hospital, she tries to assess what it would take to fix someone, whether or not he is permanently wrecked. She is curious about damage.

Simon steadies himself and returns her gaze.

“I don’t always look like this.”

“You’d better hope not, mister.”

“I ain’t got no fare.”

“Just get in.”

“I can’t pay you.”

“Just get in before the fuckin cops pick you up.”

Simon staggers to the open door and falls onto the front seat. It is all he can do to shut the door.

“You drunk?”

“No.”

“High?”

“I wish.”

“You look like you got run over.”

Simon shakes his head. “Drank some bad water.” He jerks his head at the retreating lot where the Curtis used to be. “I lived there. Guess they ripped her down.”

“Where you been? They ripped it down this summer.”

“Away.”

“Where you headed?”

“The Windsor.”

“You was walkin up there?”

“Yep.”

“You never woulda made it. Looks like you got a bum leg there.”

“I musta broke it. I was up north.”