City of the Sun

THIRTY-FIVE

When the darkness comes, so do the noises. The sounds of cars and trucks arriving, of men laughing, the thumping of doors open and shut, the dogs barking, and sometimes music, other times a lone squeal. The night is the time of dreams for the world, but not for him. For him, the night is a time for work. The cinder-block shavings come slowly together in a pile by his knees, which he blows away from time to time. Once, a long time ago, a meal had gone back without a spoon and it had not been noticed and now the spoon handle heats from friction, its point sharp and mean. He ’ s bent the rounded part of the spoon back toward itself, and after holding it for so many hours it fits smoothly into his palm. The point and edges of the weapon have long been sharp enough. He knows this by his blood, which he ’ s drawn from his own hand. He stops at a sound: footsteps in the hall. He tucks his weapon behind him. Then the footsteps continue on and he returns to his work…