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distracting him. The light,
melancholy tune beckoned him. He knew that song. In the initial
chaos of his first reap Oz had almost forgotten that there was a
rest of the world outside. He wasn’t trapped at a desk anymore.
    Oz promised himself he wouldn’t go far, just
outside the apartment building. That wasn’t really leaving,
though it wasn’t likely Bard would see it that way. Oz didn’t care.
Maybe it was the post-orgasm haze that had him feeling slightly
reckless. He was in the land of the living, in a body. He intended
to use it.
    Oz opened the door wide enough to let a
sliver of piss-yellow light in and looked down both directions of
the hallway. It smelled like wet dog. Bard probably wouldn’t wait
right outside the door, expecting Oz’s escape, but it was
impossible to predict exactly what the old bastard might do. Oz
left with the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.
    The afternoon sun had all but disappeared.
Dark clouds gathered and a breeze blew, thick with moisture. The
guitarist stood beneath the awning of a used book store with his
guitar case open. A small, short haired dog, fought against its
tether as it nipped the heels of passersby until its gaze locked on
Oz. As he drew closer, the few onlookers checked watches and cell
phones and realized they had other plans.
    Oz felt guilty for having inadvertently
driven the guitarist’s patrons away. He wished he had money to give
him and scanned the ground for an errant quarter, dime, anything.
Used to be you could find change anywhere. The corner of a dollar
bill flapped from beneath a mound of mulch. Score! Oz picked
it up and approached the guitarist. The man stopped playing, mid
song, stuffed the tips into a pouch inside the case, and placed his
guitar inside. He couldn’t seem to pack fast enough.
    “Hey, wait,” Oz said, but the guitarist, of
course, didn’t acknowledge him.
    He latched his case, slung the strap over his
shoulder, and untied the dog’s leash from the rack. The dog growled
low and deep but didn’t bark. It was like he was afraid to, but
wanted Oz to know that he knew he was there.
    “What’s your problem, Kujo?” The guitarist
dragged the still growling mutt in the direction of a bakery across
the street.
    It’s enough to make a man feel unwanted, Oz
thought sourly.
    The end of the street had been blocked off by
half a dozen police cars and miles of yellow tape. A news reporter
and a couple of morbid stragglers ogled the aftermath of the bus
crash. Oz pocketed the dollar and walked in the opposite
direction.
    He looked for identifiers that would help him
establish a sense of place, but nothing stood out. Buildings were
buildings. Sidewalks were sidewalks. The deeper into downtown he
wandered, the more dilapidated the buildings became. He figured
he’d wandered into one of those historical areas like the ones he
avoided when he was a skittish kid who believed that history is
where ghosts like to hide.
    Oz walked several blocks before he came upon
a delicatessen. A sign announcing its grand opening adorned the
short, wrought-iron gate surrounding the empty patio. The door was
propped open and the scent of various deli meats rode the air like
a ship of deliciousness bound for the harbor of Oz’s mouth. He
reached into his pocket and felt only the dollar he’d found on the
sidewalk. His heart sank and his mouth salivated. There was no food
in his apartment and he wasn’t willing to bet that Bard’s
“business” involved a visit to the market. He might not starve and
die but he might fade away under the pressure of his undeniable
craving. His stomach growled.
    A car double parked at the curb right in
front of the delicatessen. From the driver’s side a leggy woman
slid out, rounded the front of the car, and made a beeline for the
entrance, and by default, for Oz. When she passed within inches of
him, so close his nose stung from the sharpness of her high-end
perfume, her pocket rang. She stopped, answered her phone,