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The Tiller here, with me, in the park, gets up and walks out of the enclosure. As he leaves, the sun has nudged its way past the corner of a building on Fifth Avenue and just over the top of a clump of leaves on a row of jacarandas. The park is flooded with lemon-white light.

My Tiller, Tiller I's world turns the color of cobalt and cerulean. He sees tiny, toothlike blue-white flames along the ceiling studs as he is blown into the roof in a cloud of powdered drywall and ceiling tile.

The Tiller in the real world walks past the Horton Grand, pauses and places a paper bag into a trash container on the street. His pace increases.

I flip the yellow pages closed, reach for another smoke, and think again. I feel as if I've smoked 50 of them today.

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