Kurt
took two steps toward him, but Davey was away, under the chain link
fence and over the edge of the hill leading down to Dupont Street.
"You okay?" Kurt said, crouching down beside him, putting a hand on his
shoulder. "Need a doctor?"
"No doctors," Alan said. "No doctors. I'll be okay."
They inched their way back to the car, the world spinning around
them. The hard-hats met them on the way out of the Vesta Lunch and their
eyes went to Alan's bloodied face. They looked away. Alan felt his
kinship with the woken world around him slip away and knew he'd never be
truly a part of it.
#
He wouldn't let Kurt walk him up the steps and put him to bed, so
instead Kurt watched from the curb until Alan went inside, then gunned
the engine and pulled away. It was still morning rush hour, and the
Market-dwellers were clacking toward work on hard leather shoes or
piling their offspring into minivans.
Alan washed the blood off his scalp and face and took a gingerly
shower. When he turned off the water, he heard muffled sounds coming
through the open windows. A wailing electric guitar. He went to the
window and stuck his head out and saw Krishna sitting on an unmade bed
in the unsoundproofed bedroom, in a grimy housecoat, guitar on his lap,
eyes closed, concentrating on the screams he was wringing from the
instrument's long neck.
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