His head is turned at a bad angle, the chin up over the shoulder and pointed at ninety degrees. The eyes, open and glassy. The mouth, closed, as if posed forever in thought. His bag lies a few feet away. A cell phone, a few feet past that. Miriam descends the steps. A minute ago, she watched him leave the warehouse. Philly's chemical stink – a dull, acid perfume that rises with steaming manholes and drifts down with spitting rain, calling to mind a mixture of sewer gas and pesticide – burns her nose and burns her eyes, and she feels herself tearing up, and she convinces herself that's all it is, the stink of the city. When he left, Paul crossed the road. He checked that calculator watch from a bygone era as he did. No cars struck him. No heart attack claimed him. He stepped up on the curb.
