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The man ran. The man ran across a grassy patch of park. He paused to wipe his brow, and as he did, he cast his glance up into the achingly blue Autumn sky. The air was starting to turn cold, but he liked it like that.
The man, named Eugene, wasn’t wearing his glasses, but he could still see, set against the turquoise deep, a white contrail, and at its tip end, a miniscule speck of white plane, now glinting in the light of the late afternoon sun. He paused there on the dried grass to consider the plane and all the people on it, and he wondered where it could be headed. It was going east, so maybe New York City, or possibly even Canada. He slowed his breathing and watched the plane, focusing his eyes on the tiny pin-prick of light, and in that minute, just as he was focusing his
