Bishop took refuge from the rain beneath a bridge in Central Park. The sun was beginning to set, and, although the rain had brought with it cumulous and graying clouds, the sky was lit with beaming rays of red and blue. He listened to the raindrops pelting against the stream. His sneakers were waterlogged; his jeans and sweatshirt were too. Bishop leaned against the stones and surveyed his palms. The scars always turned pale during a rainstorm. The rain fell with a thunderous applause as the cold wind ripped through the tunnel. He pondered his scars and the rain and the streams of beaded water that ran across the skin. The park was vacant then, and Bishop felt alone. But he remembered the stars and the sun and how remarkable the heat felt on his skin. He remembered his breathing, the long steady breaths that had taken him to lands unforeseen. And then, as the rain started to die, Bishop glimpsed a light in the corner of his eye, a white yellowing light that held him in a trance. The tunnel was quickly consumed with light. Everywhere there was light, and Bishop could sense something unknown coming to greet him. Quickly the tunnel disappeared, and suddenly Bishop was not among the mortals any longer.