“Edgar was a clerk in San Francisco just like you, my boy.” I feel a little whirl of dislocation—the trademark sensation of the world being more closely knit together than you expected. Have I read Deckle’s slanty handwriting in the logbook? Did he work the late shift? Deckle brightens, too, then goes mock-serious: “Piece of advice. One night, you’re going to get curious and wonder if maybe you should check out the club next door.” He pauses. “Don’t do it.” Yes, he definitely worked the late shift.
