“Thumbnail. Right hand.” “Yes?” “Exceptionally long. Drug dealer.” “Maybe.” “Left hand?” “Yes?” “Fingertips?” “Yes?” “Calluses. Guitar player.” “Maybe.” “Why him?” “Didn’t they tell you?” “No.” “It’s okay. The less you know the better.” “I can’t help but wonder.” “Don’t worry. You won’t after a while.” Oh, yes, I will. No matter what you say. I know too much. His name is Kenneth. He draws. He paints. His health is not good. His wife’s name is Miriam. He has two kids and the kind of luck that only turns bad. He’ll be coming along Sixth Avenue any moment now— “There he

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