Chicago – trolley car jingles, heat closing in like mice trapped in a barrel. The sun just keeps burning. The barrel bakes the mice into the sorry flesh of the world. Ma gave me a dime to go to Pa’s apartment. I don’t want to go, there’s nothing there for me, I’m a son, but he isn’t my father. I take one streetcar after another until I’m no longer in the city, or even the state. I am going east.