What I know is that this day is come and that it will go.

A can of meat stew held him, and one of a vegetable he had found. They held him and squeezed him and weighed him down, numbed his hands and pulled his arms until they rested on the kitchen table and he realized the sun had gone down. How had she done this? he thought. How would he do this?

The light didn’t work. None of the lights worked. The clocks, the television, everything was quiet and dark. The one light he could see came through the window over the sink. It pushed itself through the blinds, coming from the neighbors’ back yard and over the fence he had built to keep their dog out of her garden. In the dim he could make out the curves of his fingers, the protruding knuckles, the spot of warm gold. He shut his eyes, but still he saw it.