The Long Climb

On the way to Congress, across the water, a bronze guitarist has his hat tipped toward the bike. He wasn't like that by day, Remy says, and keeps his eyes on the road. Up Congress the Driskill hotel is dark but for one high window, where someone stands with their back to the glass.

On Twelfth the bike gets loud. Every weld Dot laid down makes its own small sound, and together they make a slow loping beat, and you are walking in time with it before you notice. The pots rustle with it. Then from the crate comes a hum, low: three notes up and one back, over and over.

You put a thumb on your watch and hold it. A note comes, and when you tip your wrist toward you it climbs. You bring it up to the crate's. Your wrist ticks once, and the hum stops to listen.

Remy has not looked round.