It is the thirteenth autumn of his life, his fourth as a paperboy. He walks the streets and alleys and hidden lanes of his neighbourhood. He does not see another living soul. Once there were children on bikes, shrieks from lemonade stands, messages of hope and love and hopscotch codes chalked on sidewalks, the splintered rip of hockey sticks on pavement. He is young, but even he can recall, vaguely, these sights and sounds. No more. The world sprawled out before him is carved into rigid plots and miniature fortresses, a maze of concrete, steel fences, manufactured siding and faded asphalt shingles. He walks slowly, but with purpose, his burden slung over his shoulder. He thinks he might be the last paperboy on earth. He has never met another.
There is something almost lethal in his lean frame, fibrous potential energy surging along thin cords of braided muscle in his arms and shoulders, taut calves and thighs. His skin is tanned a deep, leathery brown. As he cranes his neck to search the skies for vapour trails that are not there, the creases of his skin are near black. His eyes are the colour of moth wings, and when he delivers papers in the rain, his long eyelashes clump together in luscious dark spears.
Late evening sunlight scatters through thinning branches and seems to hang in droplets all around him, as if his imagination, flaring, escapes his body and condenses in…
