People have peered into the depths of caves for thousands of years, hoping the voice that sounded from the blackness could tell the future. It usually ends badly: what we want to hear most is almost always something we will regret learning. It had rained in the night. When I went for my jog by the Narrows that ran between Staten Island and Brooklyn, the morning sun made the blacktop of the pathway steam. The air was warm and thick with a rich mixture of dust and exhaust, saltwater, grass. The day was heating up and the moist air was thickening with particulate matter. It made the distant hulk of Staten Island look dreamy and indistinct. I pounded my way along, trying to think of nothing. Instead I thought of everything. I was none the wiser for the experience. There was a knock on the door. Dee stood there with her husband. "Is he sober, Dee?" I asked. She laughed and gestured at him. My brother looked miserable. He squinted at me. "What kind of fucking question is that?" Micky said. "A good one.
