New York
I remember the day Duncan died; it happened, probably as it usually does, so unexpectedly, a lightning bolt striking the quiet.
New York"s fall was turning into New York"s winter. My favorite time of year. I watched from our apartment the people out in the street walking through the rain whose faces were lit by the cold blue light of their mobiles, distracting them from the elements. They followed the eerie glow like a carrot on a stick, leading them through the greyness as they hurried about their business.
We had mice. They had been living generation on generation in our apartment since the 1850s. We were temporary guests who paid our rent to them in dropped crumbs and forgotten leftovers.
Then there was that scurrying sound, the scratching of tiny nails on the wooden floor
