Even after Simon’s leg has healed and the fever was broken thanks to the pharmaceuticals Irene stole from the hospital, he did not want to move out. She didn’t want him to move either. After her long shifts pacing the floors at the hospital, of hassling the big cab around the unforgiving and unforgiven streets of Minneapolis, she wants Simon around. She likes his spontaneous discourses on the city, on her building. Her work feels like wandering, aimless activity. But when she comes back to her apartment on Portland Avenue, Simon tells her the history of where she’s been. He explains to her what used to stand at the corner of Grant and Fourth Avenue, when all she saw was the gray cement and two hookers in matching electric blue shoes slugging a drunk with their purses. She comes back tired and Simon explains the different histories she drove over that day, the ruined monuments. She thinks maybe he found the root of her fatigue, the cause of the numbness she tries to displace with antidepressants.

As for Simon, he has nowhere else to go. Maybe he could bunk with One-Two. He might find Dougan, but neither option sounds good.

Once his ankle heals he walks over to the Windsor to find One-Two, who is surprised to see Simon. Everyone thought that Simon had drowned. One-Two hands him a slip of paper with Dougan’s new address written on it.

He goes down in search of Dougan in the basement of one of the newly refurbished warehouses along Saint Anthony. He finds him adding a poster to the inside door of the new mop closet.

“Christ, Dougan. Ain’t like you got to hide those from nobody. Ain’t like anyone comes down here.”

“I just like them all in one place. If I start puttin them on the main wall there ain’t no way I’d be able to cover it. This way, with all of them next to each other, hid away like this, makes me feel like there’s hundreds of them, and they’re all mine.”

He secures the last corner with a strip of silver duct tape and stands back to admire his framing job. “Where you been?” he asks Simon without taking his eyes off Miss February.

“Had a bit of an accident. I’m shacked up.” He looks down at his feet, guilty he hasn’t told Dougan sooner.

Dougan nods thoughtfully. “Pussy’s better than fist any day of the week.”

“I got a job.”

“You can stay with me if you need to.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t be so sure. Thing about pussy’s that fist’ll always last longer.” He turns back to the girls on the wall. “This here’ll preserve better than both.”

Simon sits down and lights a cigarette.

“Your nephew came by lookin for you.”

“He’s supposed to be up north.”