SAL
The stranger sat on Sal’s bench the second Friday in December, three months before Mr Merkel died. The old lineman had already come, telling Sal about a Homecoming game against Battle Mountain fifty years ago before limping off with his OxyContin, thirty pills now, for pain that was getting worse. The young mother and the courthouse man had stayed for a few minutes, too, their breaths tiny clouds in the cold air. The young mother’s son was about to start preschool, and she was nervous about leaving him. The courthouse man complained about his doctor, who didn’t believe he had carpal tunnel syndrome. As always, Sal listened with a sympathy that made them seem lighter when they stood up than when they sat down, and this made him lighter, too. Now he was waiting on the Honda woman, who b
