Putting out the lighter, he felt for the buckle and tightened it up one notch. That accomplished he flicked the lighter back on and inspected his handiwork. Soon enough he'd have some money, and buy a new watch, maybe even a Rolex. The hackles stood up on the back of his neck as his watch slid around his wrist to hang at the low spot of the band. "I've got to get out of here, " he said out loud. "Something screwy is going on and I don't want no part of it." Standing up, he reached for the lip of the opening. It seemed much higher, almost out of reach. His shoes felt loose and sloppy on his feet, his pants too large in the waist and too tight in the hips, his shirt much too large everywhere but the chest, where it was beginning to pinch him. With a strangled shriek he tried to leap for the opening, now visibly inching further away from him. His fingers found momentary purchase on the lip of the drop slot, but he lost what tenuous grasp he had as he noticed how his hands had become. He was amazed how giant it seemed up close, scraping the floors of the clouds funneled between the ridges, even though he passed it every day into town. He glanced toward the distant edges where concrete cuts into stone and remembered for a second a story he was told, a german boy who spotted a leak in the dam above town and plugged it with his finger. Apparently he stood there for hours, resolute on saving the town, even plugging a few more leaks. But it’s hard for him to think of saving others when he knows he can’t save himself, so he gives up the fable and stumbles blindly forward toward glaring memories. He parked the desk on the stony bank of the nearby stream and took a seat in the plastic chair whose back had been kicked through – leather shoe tapping a metal leg, scratching his initials to the hinged platform with his raw and bloodied fingers. Truth is he wanted a front row view, and now that he’s spotted the first of the spurts of water that have forced cracks into.
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