Twenty-Five

One of the kids comes down the ladder, takes the pot from you and carries it up to the empty slot in the wall, the twenty-fifth. On the way up, the newspaper around it slides off and comes down the face of the wall, turning, and you catch it. The pot fits.

The woman counts again, with her lips, and gets to twenty-five. She goes back in to her machines.

Remy turns the bike toward home. You take the handlebar to help, and it comes round in your hand and weighs almost nothing. He steps on a pedal and it goes down Twelfth quick, the empty crate rattling.

You unfold the newspaper. Across the top is a date. You count it on your fingers. It is a week from today.