LITMIR.BIZ

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driveway, past the apiaries and sycamore trees, to the town’s single bus stop.

      The big secret was this: his brothers knew nothing about bookkeeping, and for the past several months, Michael had used an account he had created, called Offsets, where he had placed small amounts for himself. Life inland had become intolerable. Ever since the accident, his life had become stagnant, never leaving the house, watching the same trees lose their leaves and then burst into green again, never knowing any other smells than those carried by the wind; before he knew it, ten years had passed. His younger brothers grew bigger, hairier, and fatter, and although Michael technically was an adult, he was treated like a cloistered child because he was the same size he had been at fifteen. He listened like a child by placing a glass on the wall to hear the sounds from their rooms, and he hid whenever his brothers’ girlfriends stayed overnight and ate breakfast in the living room. His family was constantly worrying he would be swept away by the strong inland winds. They never let him go outside unless he had a heavy metallic belt with him, like a paperweight, to hold him in place. The few outsiders who saw him were always so startled and overly sympathetic, as if he was in constant pain. They never understood. No one understood. But after ten years as a kind of pet, he was on his own, and there was no way to stop him. They would never know he had come to the city. Did the wind take him away? they’d ask, searching the fields and inspecting the scarecrows for evidence of Michael’s body. But they would find nothing. He didn’t even leave a note. He didn’t want to waste the paper.

      He could be anyone now. The one thing that acknowledged him was a crow that yelled at him from a tree. He wandered the streets of the city and thought about the new life he would start. He imagined living in an apartment that overlooked the ocean, painting the images on large canvases, much larger than any work by his father. And in the corner would be paintings of his memories back home, with a dark streak beside the collapsing barn to represent his father’s shadow. From this apartment, he would study the ships entering the harbor and how the pedestrians moved like ants on the sidewalk.

      Here he was, one of the ants, someone unknown in the buildings above studying him. He looked up, searching for that window with a light, the hope that he could one day be up there.

      Instead, he was hit in the eye.

      It began to rain.

      3

      THE OTHER PEDESTRIANS HAD BEEN PREPARED. THEY POPPED open their parasols, which had been conveniently stowed inside their bags, strapped to their belt buckles, or in their hands. Everyone had the same style: a short, wooden handle with black fabric for the canopy. A few men loosely tented newspapers over their heads and dashed for cover. A stocky woman lowered the hood of her stroller and tightened the blankets around a baby. The only parts of the baby that could be seen were its hands, in motion like little pincers. Small nomadic groups of hooded people were headed in all directions—he had no sense which way led to the best place for shelter. Some hid indoors; some huddled beside a bus stop with a small overhang only large enough to cover a bench that could seat three. He stepped into the crosswalk and tried to duck under other people’s umbrellas. Underneath them, the stiff faces of the umbrella owners glared at him, recoiled, and hurried on.

      It was summer time. Weren’t the rains over after spring? But then he realized he was assuming the rest of the world was like the inland. The inland: known for hot, dry summers and wet winters and springs. The city had its own climate, and he couldn’t believe that he had not thought of this before.

      Every minute the rain seemed to transform. It started as fat sporadic drops of water, splashing dark dots on the sidewalk and pavement. Then a wind blew in from the sea and shifted the drops to assault people and buildings horizontally. And then the drops turned into drizzle, finally settling on a steady shower. The rain felt warmer than the surrounding air, the clash of temperatures making the streets muggy. Wind picked up and set flight to loose leaves of newspaper across the street. Wheels of cars mirrored the wind, spraying beads of liquid from their tires, like moving sprinkler heads. Taxis honked and bus brakes squeaked. In the distance he saw a small traffic jam at an intersection. A man, his mustache dripping with rain, was yelling at a driver. He stood waving his deflated umbrella and spoke in a language that Michael did not recognize.

      The gray cloud cover muted the colors of everything—except the blue trash cans on street corners, which seemed like columns of topaz; gray glass and gray walls; gray pavement, tinged with the swirling rainbow and starbursts of oil slicks; and the rolling water that stretched down the gutters like gray tentacles.

      Michael grabbed a newspaper from the bus stop and tented it over his head. A new learned behavior. He was briefly excited for this innovation he had acquired. His jacket and shirt were damp. His detached arm snug in its sleeve. Water was something he had learned to avoid over the years. Whenever it rained inland, there always was a clear sign. The clouds would collect and darken in one spot of the sky, or they could be seen migrating from a distance, rolling forward like sheep. Here, it was as if the sky had suddenly given in to the weight of the water. Like nature’s accounting: the credit of water in the air had transferred to the debit column of raindrops.

      Up ahead, he could just make out through low-lying clouds the verdant hill and its luminous lighthouse. Far behind him were the highway and the bus accident. He had no plans to return. He had no entry form, no luggage, no money. But those things didn’t matter right now.

      He followed a few soaking people to a teahouse. Yet he was too late—the teahouse was packed, and the wet pedestrians who were pressed against the window steamed up the glass from their neverending supply of body heat. A crowd indoors seemed like a place where he could have blended in and waited out the storm. Michael reached for the door handle, but a crinkle-nosed waitress saw him. She shook her head and shut the lock on the door.

      “Please,” he said. He knocked on the glass. “Please let me in for a minute.”

      She had tired eyes that might have been kind had she not been squashed in a room full of anxious people. She mouthed something. He stared. She mouthed it again and walked away. No more room.

      Another restaurant kicked him out when he admitted he had no money and asked only to use the bathroom. Sorry, the waitress had said, the bathroom is for customers only. He sputtered a laugh. How funny that she would think he wanted to expel things from his body when all he was trying to do was keep his body intact. At another street corner, he passed the display window of a department store. The lights clicked off as he walked by. He scurried ahead to the entrance, where a few customers ran out into the rain. A biscuit-faced little girl stepped in a puddle that splashed onto her socks. She screamed—a mix of shock and delight. A new sensation, around his neck, extended to his waist. When he peered inside his jacket, he found a river of ink and paint that started at his neck trickling down his torso. He was losing his color. A taxi pulled up, and the girl and her distracted mother climbed in. As she was shutting the door, the girl paused and stared at Michael. Her eyes were large like goggles. She pointed and Michael turned away, embarrassed. While adults were too absorbed in their own lives and situations, children were always the first to notice when something or someone wasn’t right. The mother’s tapering arm around the girl’s shoulder drew her in, and then she slammed the taxi door. He realized he must look like a monster to them, falling apart in the rain.

      The door to the department store: locked. The place had closed. This time when he let go of his detached arm, it fell out of his jacket sleeve. He stuffed it back inside. Did bad weather always affect the city like this? He didn’t understand why everything was closed or full. It had been so long since he’d been in a city, he didn’t know the protocol. If only he’d had more time to learn it. Why did it have to rain his first day here? He leaned against the building next to him, but there was no cover above, and each minute he felt his body grow heavier—liquid seeping inside his paper skin.

      The rain was relentless now, punishing him—it seemed—for entering the city. Hardly anyone was on the street. A bus arrived at its stop across the way, and a small shivering crowd boarded. Michael ran over, and the water that his feet kicked up soaked into his legs.

      “Please, I need to board, but I don’t have any money,” Michael said to the bus driver. “I’ll pay you back.”

      “Get

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