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Although he was approaching the age where he could start expecting the first of several prestigious club invitations (arranged by his father), he worried that his current position at the Post would be an impediment. He needed to get back to the Timesand fast. But a good story was like a fire. And this one was already guttering. He needed a development, even if it was manufactured. His earlier pieces had already swelled the ranks of the Bible-thumpers, devil worshipers, Goths, freaks, satanists, and New Agers who now gathered daily along the fringes of Central Park opposite the building. He took a breath and backpedaled. You know how much holiday time I have accrued. He saw, beyond Jenkin, in the now open doorway, a strange figure, which he remembered afterwards as like a tall thin utterly bedraggled blackbird. As she stepped or staggered in Jenkin gripped her and held her.
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