Its colors lay around him like a scarf, snug and warming yet brittle, foretelling winter. He kicked at some leaves that had colored, fallen, and been blown into a pile at the base of a spindly aspen planted near the edge of the parking lot, at a point just south of the slot D.T. rented for four hundred bucks a year from a municipal corporation under investigation for corruption. D.T. feared the little aspen, already leafless, would soon become lifeless from the fumes it breathed each day. D.T. also feared its carcass would remain in place forever, symbolic of existence, an affront to his every morning. He wondered whether euthanasia was a defense to the murder of baby trees. The palsied elevator raised him to his floor. He opened the door to his office and stood for a moment, transfixed by the sight of Bobby E. Lee typing words at the rate of ninety-five per minute. “What are you doing on Thursday?” D.T. asked as the shiny ball of type completed another manic whirl. Bobby E. Lee didn’t look up.
