It is raining hard in the city. It has been raining hard for days. The storm-drains are full of rushing water. The streets are semi-flooded.

Here in this city there might be a famous writer who has just finished what he considers his greatest work. His daughter may have died of a brain hemorrhage just yesterday. Perhaps she was only six or seven years old, the hemorrhage due to an undetected birth defect. Perhaps this writer still uses a typewriter instead of a computer, and has only one copy of his work. If so, his only copy and his dead daughter would seem strangely linked. He wouldn't be sure just how. Perhaps it is a short masterpiece, maybe 200 typed pages. And maybe this writer would take his manuscript out with him to have lunch and do some editing. The manuscript would be in a plastic cover to protect it from the rain. He wouldn't drive to the restaurant; he would walk.

He would arrive to the restaurant cold and wet (he carries no umbrella). Perhaps he is Jewish. If so, he wouldn't mind breaking kosher requirements and ordering a turkey sandwich with cheese. Something may make him laugh; if so, his laughter would make him cry. After lunch he would walk back home. Maybe he would pass a bridge that goes over an open storm drain. If so, he would wonder for a second whether a person caught in that rapid water could survive.