Kierk sets down his phone. The air turns to stone. The birds of talk fall about him. All around the park the colorless green ideas are out sleeping furiously, making their beds amid the abandoned top hats of rain, spouting stalks, maybe Atif’s soul was out as well, out in that quiet haunting of mist, the sound of words on a tin roof. All around him dew evaporates, rising up to heaven. The old lady surrounded by pigeons is still looking at him from the bench opposite his. His migraine is no longer a migraine. It is something else. The interplay between the light and fine mist becomes a study in thanatology, as do the words, the heartbeat in his ears, the pain in his skull that he is suddenly so incredibly grateful for, the slow-motion movement of people, violins of thought going off quietly in the background, everything is rising into evanescent form, the world is a ballet dancer doing a slow leaping grand jeté as gravity lets go and then everything is rising, rising, and right then he feels the violent vibration of a passing subway train underneath him. The pigeons, their rounded bodies steaming with élan vital, make a collective decision and all arc to sky.

Kierk and Carmen sit in a local deli, the surreal bustle of customers around them. Hunks of white processed chicken glisten up at Kierk. His sandwich is a tombstone of meaning that he can’t stop staring at. They’d shared a quick hug when they both arrived. Carmen’s face is puffy from crying, her hair secured up in a short bun by a big blue hair clip, and she’s wearing a faded T-shirt that reads COLUMBIA. Her stainless steel water bottle sits next to her sandwich, which she also hasn’t touched.

“How did you even find out?” he asks.

“The local news sites were reporting that a neuroscientist at NYU got hit. My friend forwarded it to me. I don’t even think the department knows yet.”

“So, how did he . . . He was drunk?”

“The station was empty, there was nobody around. I feel so guilty . . .” She takes a long sip from her water bottle.

“Christ.”

“What time did we leave the bar, do you remember?”

“We took a cab, right? I think I remember a cab.” Kierk is rubbing his head.

“I think it was around two . . . I don’t really remember either. We took the cab, and Atif walked.”

“Right, he walked . . .”

“This is what I can piece together,” she says. “We get in the cab, and he walks. But the storm is really bad, so he takes the subway. He goes to the Bleecker Street Station, which is only like, a block or two away. He probably wanted to take the 6 uptown . . . and that’s where it . . . happened.”

“Christ. I mean, do you think he’d just never . . . like, what, taken a subway?”