The dry cleaner tells me his wife already sent out my clothes. “But she was gone ten minutes later,” I argue. “Doesn’t change the fact that they’re gone,” he says. “When will they be back?” “Tomorrow at noon. It should be on your claim check along with our hours. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” He doesn’t sound like he really cares, though. I guess he’s used to desperate people demanding to get their clothes faster. Then it starts raining, and that turns my hotel room dark and depressing. I play games with Bandit, who doesn’t seem too interested, then I watch television—I’m not in the mood to do the next chapter in my Intro to Philosophy MOOC—and eat too much of my food. My mood is so sour that I don’t even try to make myself contact my sister. I go down to the hotel restaurant for lunch, and when I come back Bandit doesn’t greet me at the door, which is strange. When I call him, he does come, but he’s clearly not himself. I try the feather on the string, and he barely looks at it.
