AM:47

The dog’s ears twitched. Simon rubbed scar solution onto the tops of his hands as he had every day for the past six months, trying to erase the marks left by a cooking accident. He had grown accustomed to the scar solution, an elixir of onion peel extract that smelled like the waitress girl at the Italian restaurant when her downy arm brushed his cheek as she leaned over to refill his drink.

Simon stood over the dog on the back porch, surveying the overgrown grass and peach trees and cobwebbed grill that, combined, represented his set of summer projects. He tried to remember the time of day he was born, deciding eventually on five thirty-two in the morning. It was a Presbyterian hospital back then. That was before it was bought and turned into a research center where they studied people with night terrors. Patients woke at all hours, screaming for their mothers. Everybody’s got to start somewhere.