We’ve never met. I think he lives in one of the high-rises over one the West side near the river. We leave each other spray-painted messages on the concrete retaining wall along forty-third street. Yesterday, after avoiding a few dozen itinerant zombies wandering around, I found:
Got any books? Looking for long ones. I’ve left more DVDs.
In the milk crate, encased in saran wrap, were a couple of the Terminator movies and a box set of “CSI”. In return I left him Moby Dick and Billy Budd, and the collected stories of Hawthorne. Not sure if he’ll like them.
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