Subject body: You are very far in a strange land. This is where my boy died in a strange land. The school did not have air-conditioning when he was a child. Think on this. He loved cricket as a boy. Then he discovered computers. He begged me to buy one and he spent so much time learning. His first love is here with me. She helps me write this. She cannot believe. He was the most intelligent, kind young person. I hope you got to know some of that. What happened to my boy? What happened with my boy I am talking to everyone. Asking everyone. No one will tell me anything. Accident! He was so smart. Nothing makes sense. Please help me. I need help now. I need help now God. What happened to my boy?

Kierk takes a deep breath. He is surprised to find his eyes watery. Then—what can I say? Your boy has been turned into a smear underneath New York? He shudders at the harsh language of his own thoughts, closes the email, then opens the window, smelling the humid air of the city.

It’s Sunday, so Kierk, in jeans and a V-neck shirt with the Mets cap Carmen bought for him pulled low over his eyes and his notebook at his side, walks around for a while until he finds a brunch place with outdoor seating. There, amid the chatter of couples and families, he orders an omelet, a stack of blueberry pancakes, three cups of coffee, and a glass of orange juice. Strangely, Atif’s death has stoked his appetite, a hunger not just for food, but for everything. Hungry hungry living hippo. Smacking his lips contentedly as he finishes, and still flush from the stipend money, Kierk tips forty percent then drains the last of his coffee. He heads up Broadway and finds himself back near Union Square Park, in which an art fair is being held. He is quickly immersed in the panoply of colors, tents, and people.

The tent city holds a throng of amateur artists displaying their wares. Kierk sits in the middle of the art fair, quickly getting lost in the maze of his notebook. The best writing Kierk does is always when he completely forgets himself, becoming only a vessel to pour words through, and at the end of such a period, after the deep immersion of a paragraph or a page, he’ll look up and it’s like he is coming up from being submerged, a sensorial beaching—what whales must feel when they break sea and sky.