of a hubcap down the center of the street. Emboldened, Jit slid down the face of the wall and started a cool saunter down Sixty-seventh Street, toward Broadway. At the corner, gazing across the broad knot of avenues, he stopped. There was a circle of people in the plaza, handfast and moving in a slow, deliberate dance, crying out in low voices. Jit could not hear their words, but touched their minds and found confusion and pain and a somber, bizarre hope that the dance they did round the fountain in the plaza would placate an angry god. Jit understood that; his world had always been ruled by dark forces, erratic gods. Still, he stayed clear of the dancers.
Fifteen minutes’ walk up Broadway brought him to the neighborhood of small shops, butchers and bakers and greengrocers. Ordinarily Jit would have found these places just after dark, stealing and running in the confusion of closing time. This was a different world, and he gawked and peered in the shattered windows and wrinkled his nose at the rank smell of spoiling meat, rotten vegetables, the dusty smell of stale bread and pastry. He was hungry enough to snatch a few rock-hard doughnuts from a baker’s counter; when he bit in he found tiny black bugs cutting tunnels in the sugary cake, and threw the doughnut down.
He kept walking. A fireplug gushed water into the street and down the steps of the Seventy-ninth Street subway station. Cars and buses were piled into each other, turned on their sides or completely over. Looking up once, Jit saw something dangling from the railing of a fire escape down Eighty-first Street: a child dressed in jeans and a knit shirt, hanging by one ankle, unmoving. The boy was wrapped or tangled up in clothesline; Jit could see towels and underwear still clinging to the line. Jit watched the dead child curiously, without horror or amusement.
Finally he found a supermarket, both doors slammed open invitingly. The air inside was heavy with the same ripe, sickish smell of rotting food he had met in the butchers and greengrocers. The frozen food was defrosted and spoiled, and what meat there was left was silver-green in its wrinkled plastic wrapping. The bread was gone, and the milk that had not been taken was bad. Jit fought through the thick foul smell around the dairy case and stuffed packages of cheese into the bag he had brought, different colors and shapes as they caught his eye. A few aisles over he found Saltines and animal crackers, brightly colored bags of chips and cookies, and started pulling them down from the shelves into a pile. He would have to find a way to bring it all back to the Park. Did he dare take one of the shiny plastic carts with him? Jit grabbed the handle of one and tugged it over toward the crackers, tossing things in, watching with satisfaction as the cart got fuller and fuller.
Canned foods. He selected by picture and color: gave preference to the red and brown foods and took fewer of the yellow and green foods. Soups and stews, anything with meat in them. Fruit in sticky syrup, tiny black beans in heavily spiced sauce, corn and olives and anything else he remembered by label or illustration. The cart moved more and more slowly as Jit piled things into it. At last he thought he had enough. Opening a box of sugar-dusted cookies, he munched on one while he tugged the cart one-handed toward the door. There was an anti-theft barrier there, wide enough for Jit to pass but too narrow for the cart. Jit looked anxiously around, afraid someone would come and try to stop him. At last, quickly, he emptied everything from the cart, bent and crawled under it and slowly stood with the thing on his shoulders. The barrier did not extend high; Jit brought the cart through the barrier, then went back through and laboriously transferred the food to the cart again.
Then it was a matter of pushing or tugging the cart through the streets, watching for people, guarding his treasure. He crossed east and entered the Park at Eighty-first
Fifteen minutes’ walk up Broadway brought him to the neighborhood of small shops, butchers and bakers and greengrocers. Ordinarily Jit would have found these places just after dark, stealing and running in the confusion of closing time. This was a different world, and he gawked and peered in the shattered windows and wrinkled his nose at the rank smell of spoiling meat, rotten vegetables, the dusty smell of stale bread and pastry. He was hungry enough to snatch a few rock-hard doughnuts from a baker’s counter; when he bit in he found tiny black bugs cutting tunnels in the sugary cake, and threw the doughnut down.
He kept walking. A fireplug gushed water into the street and down the steps of the Seventy-ninth Street subway station. Cars and buses were piled into each other, turned on their sides or completely over. Looking up once, Jit saw something dangling from the railing of a fire escape down Eighty-first Street: a child dressed in jeans and a knit shirt, hanging by one ankle, unmoving. The boy was wrapped or tangled up in clothesline; Jit could see towels and underwear still clinging to the line. Jit watched the dead child curiously, without horror or amusement.
Finally he found a supermarket, both doors slammed open invitingly. The air inside was heavy with the same ripe, sickish smell of rotting food he had met in the butchers and greengrocers. The frozen food was defrosted and spoiled, and what meat there was left was silver-green in its wrinkled plastic wrapping. The bread was gone, and the milk that had not been taken was bad. Jit fought through the thick foul smell around the dairy case and stuffed packages of cheese into the bag he had brought, different colors and shapes as they caught his eye. A few aisles over he found Saltines and animal crackers, brightly colored bags of chips and cookies, and started pulling them down from the shelves into a pile. He would have to find a way to bring it all back to the Park. Did he dare take one of the shiny plastic carts with him? Jit grabbed the handle of one and tugged it over toward the crackers, tossing things in, watching with satisfaction as the cart got fuller and fuller.
Canned foods. He selected by picture and color: gave preference to the red and brown foods and took fewer of the yellow and green foods. Soups and stews, anything with meat in them. Fruit in sticky syrup, tiny black beans in heavily spiced sauce, corn and olives and anything else he remembered by label or illustration. The cart moved more and more slowly as Jit piled things into it. At last he thought he had enough. Opening a box of sugar-dusted cookies, he munched on one while he tugged the cart one-handed toward the door. There was an anti-theft barrier there, wide enough for Jit to pass but too narrow for the cart. Jit looked anxiously around, afraid someone would come and try to stop him. At last, quickly, he emptied everything from the cart, bent and crawled under it and slowly stood with the thing on his shoulders. The barrier did not extend high; Jit brought the cart through the barrier, then went back through and laboriously transferred the food to the cart again.
Then it was a matter of pushing or tugging the cart through the streets, watching for people, guarding his treasure. He crossed east and entered the Park at Eighty-first
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